


Dworin ficlets

by mainecoon76



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BotFA, Cultural Differences, Dworin Week, Erebor, Family, First Time, Grief, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memories, PTSD, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War, Young Dwarves, pre-Ered Luin, various prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various unrelated ficlets written for the dworin week (Jul 7th-13th 14 and Jun 29th - Jul 5th 2015) on tumblr. Prompts and warnings given for each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prompt: Memories

**Author's Note:**

> As yet unbetaed because of time issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this as a missing scene to “Dust of Snow”, but it can stand alone. There is a Russian translation by Esthree here: http://ficbook.net/readfic/2508666
> 
> Thank you so much! :)
> 
> No warnings for this chapter.

 

**Memories**

There was a certain splendor to it, he would admit that much.

The sheer scale of the place defied all reasonable standards, and for a race that did not grow, as a rule, considerably taller than your average hobbit, surely it was impractical to hollow an entire mountain from the inside, to build giant halls with ceilings that vanished in the dim light and endless flights of staircases leading deeper and deeper into the darkness. The craftwork was beautiful without a doubt, and the remnants of grandeur which was now dusty and broken still spoke of glory and immeasurable wealth. But the vast halls and corridors were empty, and a moldy smell was hanging in the air. It reeked of death and decay, of cobwebs and mummified corpses and of dragon.

Bilbo Baggins pulled the rough woolen blanket closer around his shoulders and whished desperately for his homely, comfortable hobbit hole.

“You should eat.”

Bilbo turned a weary gaze toward the tall warrior who had walked up to his little resting place. Dwalin planted himself before him in his usual defensive stance, his arms crossed and a very familiar put-upon expression on his face.

“Don’t care if it’s not to your taste. We all need to preserve our strength. You’ve grown too thin.”

“I am eating, even if I’m sick of it.” Bilbo sighed and gestured for his companion to sit down. Dwalin ignored him. “This,” the hobbit continued and gestured towards the offending piece of cram, “is simply not enough to feed one of my kind. You should know better, Dwalin. You were one of the first to plunder my pantry.”

“And a fine pantry it was,” Dwalin admitted, looking thoroughly unrepentant.

“Indeed.” Bilbo’s heart ached as he remembered luxurious blocks of cheese, fragrant loafs of spiced bread, home-baked butter cookies and tomatoes the size of his own fist. What he would not give to dine at his own table now, surrounded by his books and maps, and warmed by a merrily sparkling fire in the grate. With a sigh he leaned his head back against the cold black rock.

It took him a few seconds to realize that Dwalin had not moved. Instead the warrior was staring at him with a very strange expression.

“You’re homesick.”

Well, that had taken him considerably longer than Bofur, Bilbo thought sourly. He answered with a shrug. “This isn’t exactly a place for hobbits, you know.”

“It used to be not so bad.”

The warrior hesitated for a moment before he settled his heavy frame on the floor. Bilbo tried not to look surprised.

“I know how it looks now,” Dwalin admitted, and there was a strain in his voice as though he found it difficult to speak the words. “Ruined. Empty. Nothing more than a tomb haunted by the ghosts of those who lost their lives to the beast. But it was not always like this.”

“You were there.” Bilbo nodded as understanding began to dawn on him. He had known that several of his companions had been witness to the dragon attack, even if they were reluctant to share the details. As Thorin’s closest friend, it made sense that Dwalin would have been one of them. “I’m sorry,” he added rather lamely.

Dwalin shrugged and looked into the distance with narrowed eyes that, as Bilbo had learned months ago, could perceive so much in what a hobbit might consider as absolute darkness.

“I was a lad,” he supplied without having been asked. “Thorin’s age. We were best friends already. When the dragon came…” He broke off, and a closed expression appeared on his face. “Well. Never mind.”

“What about before?”

Bilbo received a blank look and mustered a smile.

“Can you tell me?” he asked quietly. “I would like to know. It’s hard to imagine, you see, now that… but I’d like to understand.”

The ensuing silence lasted so long that Bilbo began to wonder if he had accidently offended his companion. You never knew, with these dwarves. But eventually Dwalin nodded.

“Erebor,” he began in his deep voice that seemed to be specifically made for storytelling, “was once the greatest center of trade and knowledge in the East. These empty halls you see here, Bilbo, used to be bustling with life. There were fires roaring in the grates and feasts held in the halls that would make the Elvenking and his minions look like beggars. Once, I remember, the first time Thorin and I were allowed to sit at the King’s table…”

Bilbo listened in amazement as the taciturn warrior began to spin a colorful narrative, evoking the life and dealings of a bygone age so powerfully that Bilbo only needed to close his eyes to be a part of it. Never had he heard Dwalin speak so long without interruption, never with so much passion and longing. Yet it was not merely Erebor of which he spoke. Woven a hundredfold into each of his tales, as though his fate was inseparably entangled with Dwalin’s, was the name of their leader.

Bilbo had known, of course, that the two warriors were close friends. Dwalin was the one who remained one step behind Thorin whenever a situation got critical. He was the one who held Thorin’s confidence and trust, and more often than not they needed no more than a gaze or a casual touch to convey their thoughts to each other. He was the one who sat beside Thorin as they smoked by the fire, and talked to him in hushed whispers when they believed the rest of the company to be asleep.

No one could help but notice their intimate friendship, but Bilbo had never given it a second thought. And there was nothing in Dwalin’s words that would have made him rethink his assessment.

But when Dwalin talked of the past he shared with Thorin, the rough lines of the warrior’s face softened in a way that made him almost handsome, as far as the term could be applied to any dwarf. His voice was warm and steady, and the look in his eyes could only be described as deepest affection. He had seen that look on Dwalin before, Bilbo realized, but it had always been reserved for their leader.

And so Bilbo began to understand that the word friendship did not begin to describe the bond shared by these two gruff, ill-mannered dwarven warriors. He felt oddly moved by the thought.

“You’ve been with him all this time,” he said wonderingly when Dwalin paused after a highly amusing tale that involved two audacious dwarflings and the key to King Thror’s private weapon chamber. “At his side,” he clarified when Dwalin’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, it just seems so strange to imagine him as… young. Or you, for that matter.”

“We were not always like this.”

Dwalin’s deep voice was unusually quiet, and Bilbo could not help but wonder if his companion had purposefully used the same words he had found for Erebor itself. The warrior’s gaze was fixed on his own hands, but Bilbo could see the sadness in his eyes, an odd look of desolation he thought he could understand nevertheless.

The home they had come to reclaim was nothing more than an empty shell. The fires had died, the halls were silent, the proud banners torn and rotting, and the two young dwarves of Dwalin’s tale had become old and bitter.

“But you’re here,” Bilbo tried eventually. “And still together, after all this time, that’s amazing, isn’t it? There’s a chance to start anew.”

Dwalin’s gaze drifted towards the door of the treasury. They both knew Thorin would be in there now, drenched in sweat and with a strange gleam in his eyes, frantically digging through the gold without ever pausing to get a moment of rest.

The silence stretched so long that it became uncomfortable, and Bilbo, whose wit seldom left him in need of an uplifting remark, realized that there was nothing to say.

Eventually Dwalin rose and nodded towards his brother and Nori, who were standing a few yards away and apparently involved in a heated discussion. “Gotta go back there,” he said gruffly. “Before those fools get into a fistfight. Make sure you eat that cram of yours before you starve.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bilbo assured him, and then, because it truly seemed important to say it, “in every regard, you know. I wish I could do more to help.”

“You’ve already done plenty.”

Dwalin shrugged and turned to go, but Bilbo heard him mutter under his breath, “If there was anything you could do to stop that damned fool from killing himself and the rest of us…” 

The warrior did not look back as he walked away, and Bilbo felt sure that those last words had not been intended for sharp hobbit ears. He stuffed the last piece of cram into his mouth and leant his head against his knees. The Arkenstone seemed to burn a hole into the pocket of his coat.

If there was anything he could do to help his friends, he decided fiercely, then this was exactly what he would have to do.

And in this particular case, the end would have to justify the means.


	2. Prompt: War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Major character death, graphic violence, PTSD (in other words, canon compliant)

**War**

Dwalin remembers the day he was first allowed to call himself a warrior.

The pride that filled his whole being, the boundless excitement, the sheer glow of being accepted into the ranks of his chosen profession are as present to him as though merely a day had passed. He remembers the ceremony too, both sacred and raucous as so many of their traditions are; but more than that he remembers the pride, and the wistful face of his best friend who tried to be happy for him but was still envious because he was a few years too young for the honours.

Neither of them had understood what being a warrior truly means.

 

He remembers the day he first saw a real war.

With painful clarity he still feels the chaos of battle, the rush of fury and blood lust, noise and heat and charging into the fray after a prince who was half mad with rage and grief. He remembers orcs and dwarves dying around him in a slaughter he could never have imagined, while the stench of their blood hung thickly in the air and death was only a heartbeat away. Afterwards there was nothing but desolation; thousands of mutilated bodies on a blood-soaked field, Balin crying in his arms, fires that consumed their father and young Frerin, Thorin's hands upon his body as they had first given in to each other in a frantic attempt to drown out all other thoughts.

He had thought he understood war, then. But his king needed him to be a warrior, so a warrior he remained.

 

He remembers the day he laid down his axes, never to touch them again.

There was a ceremony, he recalls, a large hall deep inside the mountain, and three tombs of black, polished marble. There were empty words and mournful songs and pale, grieving faces that somehow all seemed to blend into one. He made it through the proceedings because he knew he owed them, and also because Balin clutched his hand like a lifeline and would not let go until it was over. Then he had turned and left and locked himself in a chamber with only a bottle for company.

The things that came earlier he hardly remembers. Those images are shattered and broken, as though his mind cannot deal with them and so buried them in the very depths of his being. At night they used to come to light, and he would wake up in terror with the sound of Thorin's screams ringing in his ear and visions of Fíli's and Kíli's twisted corpses vivid in his mind. Sometimes there were lifeless blue eyes and a limp hand that slipped from his own because it was slick with grime and blood, or the echo of a broken voice that spoke of love and was silenced by death. At times those visions would overcome him even in bright daylight, evoked perhaps by a sight or a sound, and he would have to grip a wall to steady himself before the horror overwhelmed him again. But those occasions have grown rarer over the years.

He never told anyone why he chose to turn his back on the trade that used to be so much a part of his being. He hated the pity in his friends' eyes, too caught up in his own grief to understand how they suffered alike, and he did not want them to know that his hands got sweaty and his heart started hammering in his chest whenever he just thought about going to battle again. Instead he spent his days in the forges and worked as hard as he could, and it was enough to make a living and keep his body and mind occupied. Over the years the nights he woke up screaming and covered in cold sweat grew less, though they never quite stopped.

Eventually Balin left for Khazad-Dûm. They exchanged bitter words over this. Balin would not understand why his brother refused to accompany him; Dwalin felt deeply hurt that Balin was willing to leave regardless. But Dwalin was not a warrior any longer, and he would not face what must surely wait for them in the mines, would not leave his dull, normal, useful existence that gave him the only kind of stability he could possibly have. It was a stability Balin had never found, and so he left Erebor for the same reason Dwalin stayed. 

When, after little more than a year, no more letters arrived from Khazad-Dûm, he knew that he would never see his brother again.

 

He remembers all this as he stares at the dusty contents of a large wooden box he has now opened for the first time in eighty years. 

The pieces of his old armour are damaged and old-fashioned. Surely he himself could craft a finer piece of chainmail, and the leather is thinned by frequent use. They did not have the means, back in those days. Now every soldier of Erebor is better equipped that the king's personal guard used to be.

His old knuckle dusters are grimy and stained; he did not bother to clean them before he threw them on the pile, anxious to get rid of them. They still fit around his old, creaking bones. Balin would bully him into acquiring fine leather gauntlets to protect his forearms, now that he can afford them. But Balin is not here.

The chainmail covers Thorin's old sword, Deathless, which he hastily shoves aside before the memories can overwhelm him enough to weaken his resolve. At the bottom of the box he finds what he was looking for. Wrapped into a velvet cloth of deep red are Grasper and Keeper, and with them the large war hammer he used to swing against so many foes.

Tentatively he runs his hand across the twin axes, waiting for the familiar tightening of his chest and the blinding terror that would overwhelm him at the times when he could not keep the naked reality of the battle in the past where it belongs. There is nothing but a vague feeling of unease. He closes his hand around Keeper, feeling its familiar weight. His body has not forgotten.

 

For eighty years he has refused to look at them. He never wanted to go to war again, not even for the sake of his own brother who is lost now, whom he failed to protect just as he failed Thorin and Fíli and Kíli. But now war has found Erebor, and he is not about to hide in a forge while the forces of Mordor overrun Middle Earth and bring chaos and despair to Laketown and Dale and the mountain itself. He owes that much to Dáin, who is a good king, and to the people of Erebor, who should continue to live in peace and prosperity just as Thorin always dreamt they would.

Thorin and his nephews died to protect Erebor. It is the least he can do for them to join this fight.

The hinges of the box creak loudly as he closes it, and he decides to oil them as soon as he finds the time to do so. Right now he has more important things on his mind. 

And for the first time in nearly a century, he shoulders his axes and makes his way to the training grounds.


	3. Prompt: Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _No warnings for this chapter. Similarities to my own children… may not be entirely incidental._

"No. I won't." 

Thorin leant back against the wall to brace himself for the next round of argument. It was beginning to become difficult to uphold the general attitude of "firm but fond" with his eldest nephew, who stared back at him as the very embodiment of defiance. 

"It's all well and good to have your principles, Fíli, but consider..." 

"Shove _off_ , baby goblin!" 

He should probably have intervened before Kíli tried to take the matter into his own chubby hands and got whacked over the head by his elder brother. The dwarfling's piercing wail must count as a special punishment for his sin of omission. 

"Uncle Thorin, he _hit_ me!" 

"Those are mine! I'm not sharing with him!" 

Fíli clutched a pair of apples to his chest and stuck out his tongue. Thorin closed his eyes and started to count to ten. At four he was interrupted by the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle and a loud cry of pain from Fíli. 

"Stop this _at once_!" 

"He's biting!" 

"Kíli, we don't bite!" 

But Kíli was wailing again, and Thorin Oakenshield, King in exile and war hero of Azanulbizar, had rarely felt so helpless in his life. Except for the times he had experienced a similar situation during the past five years, give and take a few. It did not make things any better. 

 

"What's all of this, then?" 

The deep, booming voice from the hallway interrupted the general uproar for a moment. Thorin had not even heard Dwalin's footsteps over the rucus, and his first impulse was to feel ashamed that he could not even keep two petulant dwarflings under control. But there was no time for self-pity. As soon as Dwalin had entered the picture Kíli began to howl at the top of his voice, pointing an accusing finger at Thorin - what the hell had _he_ done, now? - while Fíli was doing his best to overshout him so Dwalin would get the full picture from his own well-informed point of view. Thorin watched his friend take in the scene before him and rather felt like he would like to hide in his own bed, especially when the corners of Dwalin's mouth began to quiver. 

"Right, I've enough of this", the warrior declared, his voice clearly audible over the noise even though he'd barely raised it. Three pairs of eyes turned towards him. "Care about apples all you want, if you'd rather," he continued dismissively, " _I'm_ going to the training grounds now. Shame no-one's going to accompany me." 

Two delighted shrieks filled the room. 

"Mister Dwalin, can I hold your axe..." 

"Me too, me too, me too..."

"The big one you know, I'm strong enough, I'll show you, can I?" 

"Me too!" 

Thorin stared as his friend simply walked out with two eager dwarflings in tow as if it was the easiest thing in the whole wide world. For a moment he did nothing but breathe deeply and revel in the sudden silence. 

Then he collected the apples from the floor. 

 

"You didn't have to, you know." 

Dwalin grunted sleepily and rolled his heavy frame over to face Thorin. His face was no more than a shadow in the darkness. "What?" 

"The lads," Thorin clarified, brushing a strand of thick brown hair out of his face. His friend's body was comfortably warm, but he resisted the temptation to shove his feet between Dwalin's calves. Just because they were sharing a bed it didn't mean that he was _snuggling_. "I would have managed on my own." 

"Sure you would." Dwalin did not even try to keep the smirk out of his voice. " 'Twas not like you looked in desperate need of saving. Just fancied a bit of entertainment for the afternoon." 

"You can have that more often, if you like." 

His friend chuckled softly, and for a moment they both remained in comfortable silence while Thorin's hand ran lazy circles over Dwalin's wide chest. 

"Thank you," he added eventually, because he really felt he should. "And I mean it. You didn't have to." 

"They're family," Dwalin returned, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, they can be little terrors but they're also charming. Sometimes. Mostly." Thorin could make out his grin in the dim light. "They're cute when they’ve a mind to. Or maybe it’s just that they’re too much to take sometimes. Not their fault." 

Thorin smiled back. He thought of Fíli’s glowing enthusiasm when they had returned with Dwalin, and of the way Kíli had crawled into his lap and fallen asleep long before bedtime, completely worn out by the excitement of the day.

"I know,” he said softly. “And I wouldn't trade them for the world."


	4. Prompt: Intimacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This was hastily written and is in desperate need of a clean-up. I will straighten it, but I'm afraid I won't make it today because the kids are running wild and it's time to get into battle gear. *dons Nationalmannschaft jersey*_
> 
> _But I will do as soon as possible, I promise._
> 
> _No warnings, but this one is rated **explicit.**_

**Intimacy**

 

"I don't think this is going to work." Dwalin frowned and speared a piece of ham with his fork as though it had personally offended him.

"You don’t know that. There’s a good chance." 

Thorin leant back in his seat and gave his companions a critical look. All three of them were damp and dirty, their clothes had seen far better days, and the months of travelling and poor food had taken a visible toll. They were not exactly likely to inspire confidence. But they were running out of opportunities. 

"What if it doesn't?" Dís stared moodily into her ale, and Thorin's heart clenched. His sister was tough and full of bravado, but she was still far too young to be facing the hardships of life the way she was forced to. Dwalin kicked him under the table, which meant that he had probably read his mind in one way or the other. And he was right; pitying Dís might well earn him a whack over the head. 

"Then we'll go farther." He knew that his confidant tones did not fool anyone. It was not as if there was anywhere else to go, and they all knew it. "There's talk of dwarvish settlements in the south. We can look for them. The caravans can wait here for a few weeks." 

Balin opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. 

It had only been this morning that they had left their wagons and tents to make their way into rough mountain territory. Tonight they would sleep in the man-sized beds of a small, well-kept inn that was the largest building in the human village they were passing by. They would have two more nights on the road before they reached the dwarven settlement in the Ered Luin. There was hope for them in this journey, hope that, should they be well-received, the years of wandering would finally come to an end. Yet they all felt the fear Dís had voiced, the despair that would wait for them if yet another hope was crushed. 

"I’ve asked the barmaid," Dís declared when they had finished their simple meal. "There's a market further down the road. I'll go and get supplies for the journey." 

Thorin was about to protest, but Dwalin's hand was a warm weight at his elbow and the look Balin gave him held almost imperceptible warning. His friends knew how little he liked the idea of his young sister wandering about on her own in a human settlement; but Dís was nearly of age, and she was desperate to prove her worth. "She's trying to replace Frerin," Balin had told him once when he had complained about her tendency to overestimate herself, and of course he had been seeing right through the matter. Balin had an uncanny ability when it came to these things. 

It was the same skill he showed now as he nodded in approval. "Good idea," he remarked brightly. "There's a broken clasp on my saddle, could fix it myself but it'll work better with proper equipment. We can drop by the blacksmith's on our way, I've seen the forge." 

Thorin smiled and shot Balin a grateful look. He ignored the way Dwalin's hand lingered on his arm a moment too long. They had been dancing around that particular issue for years, and none of them would ever make a move to resolve it. 

 

Their siblings set off shortly afterwards, leaving Thorin and Dwalin to move their baggage into the single sparse bedroom they had rent for the night. They worked in amicable silence. Even the strange undertone their relationship had developed over the past decade, full of lingering touches and wistful glances and thoughts that strayed in a direction they very decidedly should not, could not change the fact that they were the most intimate of friends. They had never needed many words to understand each other, and Thorin would not have it any other way. 

With a grunt he set down his heavy gear and gave the room an appreciating overview. It provided little more than two large beds, each wide enough to accommodate two humans, one shabby table and a few chairs. Thorin unclasped his damp coat and threw it over one of the backrests before he noticed that his friend was staring at him. 

"What?" he demanded. It was the first word spoken between them since Balin and Dís had left. 

"Twenty minutes, give or take," Dwalin remarked. His voice sounded a little strained, and Thorin shot him a quizzical look. 

"They'll need about twenty minutes. We have a room to ourselves. I've been meaning to clear up a few things." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"I was hoping you'd do something about it," Dwalin elaborated. "Thought you were making up your mind for, what is it, five years or so? But if you won't do it, I will. Because this is getting embarrassing." 

There was a decidedly menacing air about him as he walked towards his friend, though Thorin could not think of one single reason why Dwalin should be angry with him, and even as he prepared himself for a possible fistfight he stepped backwards and hit the wall. 

Dwalin stopped right in front of him. He looked very serious, like he always did when he was utterly determined, vaguely annoyed or, as few people beside Thorin knew, terribly nervous. Slowly he lifted his hand and traced it over Thorin's lips. The touch was light, almost questioning, but unmistakable in his intent. 

Thorin stiffened. 

"What do you think you're doing?" 

"What does it look like?" 

Dwalin braced his hands at either side of Thorin's head, effectively backing him up against the wall, and he was close now, much to close for Thorin's comfort. 

"You're being ridiculous," his friend informed him, blunt as ever. "You want this. I want this. Tell me why we shouldn't." 

Thorin opened his mouth to lecture him about of duty and dedication, but could not find the right words. Instead he felt his body react to Dwalin's closeness in a way that made it difficult to focus, and a vague panic began to rise in his gut. He set his teeth and did his best not to swallow. 

Dwalin glared at him for a long moment before be drew back with a sigh. "Oh, for Mahal's sake," he muttered. "Have if your way. We'll just stare at each other like lovesick fools for the rest of our lives." 

He made to turn away, and Thorin could read the frustration and disdain in his face even more keenly because he felt them himself. 

"Wait." 

He caught a handful of Dwalin's thick brown hair and yanked him roughly into place, and Dwalin's grey eyes met his in surprise. 

"You're my best friend," Thorin managed between clenched teeth. "You're not just a tumble in the hay. If this goes wrong..." 

"What on earth are you talking about?" Dwalin demanded angrily. "I'm not asking you to marry me. I'm asking you to get undressed and put us both out of our misery. Now will you or won't you?" 

Thorin looked at his friend's handsome face, the rough lines and broken nose and the deep scar over his right eye, and he knew it would not be that easy - it could never be easy - and also that it did not matter. He was already bound to Dwalin by ties that were stronger than family. The foundation of their friendship ran deeper that the roots of the mountain itself. A physical union would not change what they already were to each other. 

Perhaps Dwalin was right, and they were being ridiculous. He was certainly right about one thing. Thorin did want it. He had rarely wanted anything more. 

With a growl he pulled Dwalin's head towards him and drew him into a rough kiss. Dwalin muttered something that sounded vaguely like "Oh, thank the Maker" before he pushed his tongue into Thorin's mouth and began to tear at his friend's belt. 

Twenty minutes were not enough to know each other the way they longed to do, the only way they still had to learn after so many decades of friendship. There were only rough, urgent hands that tore away clothing and touched bare flesh, nails that dug into thick muscles and hungry lips that traced deep white scars. Dwalin all but yelped as Thorin pushed him onto the bed, then used his own weight to roll them over, and for a moment they were locked in a naked wrestling match that nearly made Thorin lose his composure right there and then. Eventually he ended up pinned under Dwalin's weight while they were moving together frantically, and when he reached down to clutch both their cocks Dwalin bit his shoulder so hard that it drew blood. He hardly remembered to choke his own cry as he came, and then Dwalin clutched his hair and kissed him desperately and there was even more wetness covering his hand. 

It could not have taken them more than a few minutes, but Thorin had hardly caught his own breath when his friend rolled off him and began to collect his clothes. "Mustn't be caught like this," he muttered, and Thorin shuddered as he rather belatedly imagined his sister walking in on them. But one of Dwalin's greatest virtues was efficiency, and even before their siblings returned they were both relatively clean and as respectable as their shabby clothing would possibly allow. 

 

They did not exchange many words about it, but Thorin knew it was not necessary. Their friendship was as intimate as it had always been; and there would be time, he thought with a feeling that was dangerously close to happiness, more than enough of it to explore their new-found physicality to the fullest degree. 

If only they would find a new home in the Blue Mountains, then maybe even they would be granted a small measure of peace.


	5. Ficlet for ladynorthstar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was not written for Dworin week, but it is another tumblr ficlet that fits in nicely, so I thought I'd simply add it to the mix. I imagine that this happened some time before the events of chapter 4.
> 
> I wrote this last December for ladynorthstar's challenge - she promised to create art for every Dworin ficlet she received, and she did, which means that there's a lovely ladynorthstar picture for this ficlet here.
> 
> http://ladynorthstar.tumblr.com/post/72089543619/dworin-drabble-for-ladynorthstar
> 
> No warnings for this chapter. A bit of blood, but nothing serious.

"Don’t you do that to me. Ever. Again."

Dwalin leans against the threadbare blankets that are stuffed behind his back to make him comfortable, and watches wearily as his prince stands beside the bed with his arms crossed and a particularly obstinate expression on his handsome face. His king, he corrects himself mentally. It has been this way for months, but sometimes he still forgets… would that there was anything else about this he could ever forget for a second.

Thorin is angry, he realizes, angrier than he has seen him in a very long time, but he does not really get why his friend would be cross with him. It is not his fault that they were waylaid by bandits in the middle of nowhere, nor that one of them was able to draw blood before Dwalin made sure it was the last thing he ever did. They must have been desperate, to attack a group of armed and ragged-looking dwarrows. Hungry, perhaps. Now it does not matter anymore.

 

The stab wound that had pierced his shoulder was not critical, and Dwalin disregarded it at the time in favour of more pressing matters. Dusk was about to fall, and they marched on as quickly as they could in order to reach the nearest settlement of men before is would become to dark to travel on. Yet even the staunchest warrior cannot ignore a certain amount of blood loss, and Dwalin was beginning to feel light-headed by the time they put up their tents. He did not realize that he was staggering until his brother caught his good arm in a rough grip.

"You’re about to fall over. What did you do to yourself, you foolish dwarf?"

Thorin turned around and gave him an alarmed gaze. Dwalin grit his teeth.

"Nothing," he returned gruffly. "Just a scratch. Don’t fuss."

"A scratch, eh?" Balin reached up and pulled his coat aside before Dwalin could interfere. He had to admit that even he was slightly taken aback by the amount of blood that soaked the left side of his tunic, but it was hardly a reason to make a scene. He tried to tell Balin as much, but somehow could not concentrate enough to find the words. His brother’s features hardened. "Bed. Now. Oin!"

It was rather undignified, but he could not find the strength to protest as he was ushered into one of the tents and collapsed on a mass of hastily assembled blankets. The night passed in a blur of fitful sleep and half-conscious visions of a pale figure hovering beside his lair, of a strong hand clutching his own and thick fingers caressing his hair and beard. He was alone when he awoke, not sure how much of it had been a dream.

Balin checked on him shortly after, carrying a bowl of porridge and appearing relieved that his brother was not, in fact, on the brink of death. He was closely followed by a clearly enraged dwarf king, which led them to their current predicament.

 

"Don’t you do that to me ever again.”

"It’s a trifle, Thorin," Dwalin grunts, shifting himself into a more upright position. At least his head is clearer now. "I’ve been hurt before. Don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about it."

Thorin glowers at him.

"You’ve made it worse," he spits. "You’re the most thick-headed, foolhardy…"

"Says the pot to the kettle." Dwalin watches his friend though half-closed eyes. Thorin’s face is almost as white as it was after… after that which was so much worse than this pathetic little wound, and his hands are twitching and twisting the rough fabric of his shirt. Thorin is angry, Dwalin realizes with a start, but his anger is only a shield to hide a deeper emotion. The truth is that his king is terrified out of his wits.

"What’s wrong?" Dwalin demands, feeling more alert now. They have been friends for ages, and he can read Thorin’s face better than his own brother’s. His friend is not supposed to be terrified. He has only seen it twice, and he had hoped never to see it again. "This is ridiculous. We’re warriors, this is what we do. What’s gotten into you?"

Thorin draws a shaky breath, and for a moment Dwalin’s pulse is quickening because his friend is pale and worried and his eyes look almost pleading and Dwalin can read him like an open book, and the knowledge of what Thorin wants to say hits him like a fist in the guts.

Thorin does not say anything. The silence is deafening.

Then the moment passes, and his friend’s features are hardening again.

"We need you," he says gruffly. "And you’re my friend. You’re not to take unnecessary risks to your life. I forbid it, do you hear me?"

"Aye," Dwalin consents, not pointing out that he is also Thorin’s guard because he is suddenly feeling very tired again.

"Good."

 

They stare at each other for an awkward moment before Thorin turns on his heel and walks out of the tent without a backward glance. Dwalin sinks back onto his blankets and closes his eyes.

This conversation, he decides before he dazes off again, is far from finished.


	6. Prompt: Seasons

_First blossoms of spring_

_On the slopes of the mountain._

_He does not see them._


	7. Prompt: Intimacy (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is not depressing for a change, no major character death, no canon ending. It belongs to the same verse as "Dust of Snow" and is set around the same time as the epilogue, but it can be read independently. It's also past tense and Thorin's POV. Fix it-AU, and porn.

The caves stretched deeply into the Lonely Mountain, a maze of natural tunnels that had been carved by a small underground river rather than by sturdy dwarven mattocks. Thorin knew where it spilled from the rocks on the northern side of the mountain in a waterfall that was impossible to reach on foot but quite beautiful to watch from afar. It led into a small stream that joined the River Running somewhere near the gate. The actual source of the underground river was located further in the west, and no dwarf had ever thought it necessary to disturb the natural beauty of the caves in order to lay it open. They crafted the stone and gems and precious metal into shapes of nameless beauty, seeing the most pleasing form in every rough shape and ever thriving to complete it; but they recognized perfection when they saw it, and no dwarf would ever willfully destroy that which the Maker had already given them in its finest form.

Dwalin halted beside him and grabbed his arm for support. Thorin suppressed the urge to steady him and give him a worried look. The ground was slippery and dimly lit, but Dwalin usually did his best to ignore the fact that his legs were not what they used to be. He would not take the reminder well. 

The point was moot in any case, because it could not be helped and Thorin had not taken his friend to the caves to discuss his injuries. Neither of them was as young and unbroken as they had been when they had last set foot into these halls, but what mattered was that they were here again, and they were, against all odds, still together. 

Dwalin's hand found his in the half-light, and together they stood for a moment and marveled at the wonder of nature they had last seen over a century ago. Not a thing had changed, except that in the old days one could occasionally expect to meet other dwarves down here, for they were open to anyone. Folks would come here to admire the beauty of the place or to take a plunge in the clear water, to rest for a while from their daily chores or to share a romantic moment with the companion of their heart. Yet the caves were never crowded because their tunnels stretched far and wide, and they were by no means the only place to visit in a moment of leisure. 

Thorin and Dwalin were alone now, and the only sound that disturbed the reverent silence was the soft rush of running water. The river was wide but not deep, so that it was mostly possible to stand in it, except in the middle. A light current led the water around rocks and boulders, some of them large enough to sit upon and dangle one's feet in the stream. But the most remarkable feature of the caves was the ceiling. The dark, gold-sprinkled rock was covered in white flecks of light that shone entirely on their own and bathed the room in a dim, eerie light. Scholars had identified them as small luminescent life forms. Thorin had been obliged to learn their name as a dwarfling, but he could not recall it and did not particularly care at the moment. The fact remained that this was one of the most fascinating places he had ever seen, and he was satisfied to find that the one hundred and fourty-one years that had passed since his last visit had done nothing to change it. 

 

Dwalin was the first to break the silence. "Remember when we were last here?" he said gruffly. "A lifetime ago, that was, but I can still recall. Four days before the dragon came, after we'd finished our round in the training grounds. You told me about...", and then his mouth snapped shut, and he said nothing more. 

Thorin remembered what he had told Dwalin. They had been nearly alone that last time, with no one near enough to overhear, and Thorin had confided to his best friend how much he was worried about his grandfather's strange behavior in the treasury. Dwalin had instinctively understood the gravity of the situation, but neither of them had been able to think of a decent plan, and so they had sat at the edge of the water and splashed around with their feet and thought gloomy thoughts in a very adolescent fashion, except that this time they had actual reason to be gloomy. 

Dwalin still had the uncanny ability to read his mind, especially when it threatened to descend into darkness. Now he punched Thorin's arm and grinned widely. 

"There were better times, mate. Remember the issue with the mohawk? I never really got why you didn't pursue that later." 

"Maybe I didn't want to look like you." 

"Or Dain. Oh, but you did. You thought it was the coolest thing ever." 

That was true, only his father had had other ideas of what the heir of the throne was supposed to look like, which had led to one of the most spectacular rows of Thorin's youth. Needless to say, his father had won. 

"I could still get a mohawk," Thorin growled with a pointed look towards his friend's tattoed head. "Just to spite you." 

"You wouldn't, you heartless monster." 

Their deep, shared laughter echoed in the halls, and Thorin banished all dark thoughts and revelled in the moment. Their past was made of painful memories and their future would not be an easy one; but there was joy left in their lives after all, and it was a gift. 

"Come," he said after a moment. "Let us get in." 

Dwalin looked at the water doubtfully, then eyed his crutch with disdain. Thorin pretended not to notice. 

"It is not steep," he informed his friend and began to shed his clothing. It was not quite as easy for him as it used to be, for the injuries of the battle had taken a toll on him too, even if it was not quite as obvious as Dwalin's. Yet his friend knew about it, and often he paused when he noticed Thorin's heavy breathing, or his slow and labored movements. There was no shame in a permanent injury, but Dwalin, the most tenacious fighter Thorin had ever known, flat-out refused to accept a disability that might well affect him for the rest of his life.

After a moment Dwalin reached for the wall and lowered himseld to the ground. It took him a good deal longer than usual to shed his clothes, but Thorin made no move to help. Before the battle Dwalin would have been delighted about Thorin's attempts to undress him. Now, he could not be sure. It might well be rejected as an unwelcome sign of pity. 

They had not been physically intimate since the night before the battle, and Thorin was not sure how to breach the subject. It had been many months now, and they were both healed enough to engage in the act, but their bodies had changed and things would not be what they once were. He was more than willing to try - in fact, he thought when he watched Dwalin's ungraceful attempts to pull the breeches off his gorgeous thighs and hoped that his attentions would come across as lustful rather than pitying, he was really quite eager. But he was not at all sure his partner shared the sentiment. 

He decided to advance his plan by getting into the water. It was cool, but not icy enough to diminish his growing erection, which reacted enthusiastically to the sight of Dwalin's muscular shoulders and his naked, scarred torso. Thorin had slept with his friend more times than he could count, but still he could not imagine a more desirable body. He leant onto the edge and beckoned with his hand. Dwalin gave him a baleful look. 

When they were young, they used to jump into the water with a loud splash and then raced each other to the other side, both of them skilled swimmers and full of youthful strength. Now Dwalin pulled himself across the floor because getting up was always difficult for him, and then he lowered himself gently into the cool stream. Thorin supported him under the premise of being unable go keep his hands to himself. Then he leant against his friend and kissed him deeply. 

Dwalin groaned and grabbed the edge of the rock for support. It had a comfortable height, Thorin decided, so his friend could lean his elbows onto the stone take his weight off his legs. In truth it was a perfect position, and so he cornered Dwalin effectively and began to bite the thick tendons of his neck right below the left ear. Dwalin gave a low grunt and pulled Thorin's braid sharply. 

"Whoa, ghivashel. Hold it for a moment." 

"Why?" 

Thorin ceased in his activities, but instead ran a hand over Dwalin's lower back and rested it on one perfectly shaped buttock. Dwalin hissed. Thorin could feel his hardness growing against his own belly, and as he watched his friend' s rough, handsome features in the half-light of the caves, as he ran one hand over tempting wet skin and kneaded thick muscles with the other, he had to control himself not to finish right there and then. 

Dwalin caught the wandering hand in a rough grip and twisted it just enough cause pain. This captured Thorin's attention thoroughly enough, and they stared at each other for a long moment, naked and wet and aroused and more unsure of each other than they should ever have been. Lately that had happened far too often. 

"You," Thorin informed his partner defiantly, "are ridiculous." 

"Am I?" Dwalin's eyes narrowed. He did not let go of Thorin's wrist. Thorin refused to avert his eyes or remove his remaining hand from Dwalin's backside.

"Fine," his friend declared eventually. "Have it your way. I hope you know what you're doing." 

"I am not a fool," Thorin snarled, and then he made sure there was no need to speak for a long while.

It was different now, there was no arguing about it. Their lovemaking had usually been rough and fast and they both liked it that way. Now it was slow and intense, with wandering hands tracing fresh scars and testing familiar territory that was yet changed and demanded a different treatment. It took longer for Dwalin to become fully hard, and twice they had to pause in their activities because one movement or another had made Thorin gasp in pain. Inch by inch they mapped each other's bodies anew, to find which touch would make the other groan in pleasure. Eventually Dwalin shoved one thigh between Thorin's legs, weaker than it was but still well-muscled, and then he grabbed Thorin's hair and kissed him deeply and sent him right over the edge. Thorin reached for Dwalin's hardness without breaking the kiss, and if he had to stroke a little longer before his friend gasped and squirmed and finished in his hand, it did not really matter.

 

"I guess that's something we could get used to," Dwalin admitted later when they were both dry and clothed and resting beside the river to enjoy the beauty of the place a little longer. "Not that we have much choice. But it's not as bad as I thought." 

"You have a strange idea of bad," Thorin returned lazily. He felt thoroughly satisfied by their encounter, different as it had been, and he knew his friend well enough to see that Dwalin shared the sentiment. It was not that he did not miss the rough passion they used to enjoy so much, and the mere thought of it sent a shiver of pleasure through his body. Perhaps there would be a time for that again. But for now, he would be happy about everything they had. 

Dwalin rolled over to face his friend, suddenly looking very serious. "You're right," he said quietly. "We are alive. Our friends and family are alive. We have the Mountain, and we still have this." He smiled and brushed a strand of wet hair out of Thorin's face. "That is more than I had dared to hope for. And it is not bad at all."


	8. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years have passed since the battle of the five armies, but sometimes the memories return with a vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, [Selina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha)! (Or not, but it'll still be valid in a few days ;) ). This one's for you!
> 
> This ficlet is part of the "Promises to Keep" series (so it's a sequel to Dust of Snow), but can be read independently. Post-BotFA, Fix-It.
> 
>  **Warnings** for animal death and PTSD.

Dwalin does not like winter.

It is not necessarily because of the cold. He has suffered far worse than this, like harsh mountain winters he'd survived in threadbare clothes with merely a tent to shelter him and his kin from the biting frost, or getting lost in a blizzard because a certain mulish king couldn't pull his head out of his arse long enough to admit he'd taken the wrong direction. All things considered he is fairly comfortable right now. The pale winter sun warms his face and makes the large blocks of ice along the path glow like giant sapphires. He is clad in warm garments of wool and leather underneath his heavy armour, which befits the personal guard of the King Under The Mountain. His pony is trotting along right behind Thorin's, trained to obey the merest hint of a command so his lame legs are not much of a chore. The guards behind them ride in comfortable silence, and the only sounds that disturb the quiet winter morning are the soft stomping of hooves in the snow and Fili's voice humming an ancient song. All is well.

Still, Dwalin does not like winter. It makes him think of blood and death.

 

They have only half a day left on their way to the Iron Hills, where Dain is waiting for them with a feast in his sturdy halls made of red stone, with roaring fires that keep the frost a faint memory outside their gates. It will be good to see their cousin again. Five years have passed since the reclaiming of Erebor, and though there is less distance between them now, duty rarely allows either Dain or Thorin to leave their realm for a friendly visit. It is worth a bit of unpleasantness on the road, and if Dwalin were feeling a little less on edge, he would admit that the scenery of ice-clad plains and rust-coloured mountains is a sight to behold. Thorin rides in silence, turning whatever thoughts may be rumaging in his head over and over again as is his wont. He never stopped brooding even these last years when fate has been kind to them, and Dwalin leaves him to it. Instead he lets his gaze roam across wide plains to their right and coarse rocks to their left, constantly checking for movement and subtle signs of danger. Sometimes death comes from the skies too, huge winged creatues that catch their unsuspecting victims and shatter them on the ground below, and the snow is splattered with blood and gore and screams of the dying tear through the clatter of weapons and battle-cries of dwarves and men...

Dwalin growls and urges his pony to a quicker pace. Thorin looks at him and frowns, understanding with a single glance but knowing better than to break the silence. 

 

A large formation of rocks raises Dwalin's suspicion even from afar. It is close to the road and offers a perfect hideout, which makes it the ideal place for an ambush. There is no conclusive reason for his distrust, although there have been reports of roaming bandits in this area now and then; but the skin in the back of his neck is prickling.

Thorin slows his mount as they approach, meeting Dwalin's eye in a way that tells him his friend shares the concerns. Dwalin takes the lead almost casually. His senses are strained to the breaking point as they approach the rocks, three hundred yards, two hundred...

... but suddenly there is movement between the boulders and Dwalin yanks his pony to the side and then it it screams, rearing violently to its hind legs. Dwalin has no chance to hold on with his weakened knees, and he crashes down onto the icy ground.

A moment later the air is filled with shouts and the trample of hooves as his companions rush towards the rocks in a unified attack. Five years ago Dwalin would have jumped to his feet and run after them with his axes drawn and ready; now he pushes himself up and stumbles on, praying to Mahal that his legs will support him long enough to make a difference. More arrows hit the ground next to him, and suddenly there is a shrill cry and a shout from Thorin. Dwalin watches in horror as his friend's pony collapses beneath him and Thorin hits the ground hard. The animal rolls over and kicks in agony, struggles to get to its feet again, then breaks down merely a few feet from Thorin's prone form. The snow all around them is splattered with blood.

Dwalin shouts his friend's name as he staggers on, but Thorin does not move, and when Dwalin falls to his knees beside him and turns him on his back he looks into a pale face streaked with red. Thorin is bleeding from a head wound and his eyes are closed, as if... just like... and there are shouts and screams in the background and the clatter of weapons, and Dwalin can sense the rush of air beneath huge wings and the foul stench of orcs and the smell of blood, feels more than sees the chaos of the battle around him, maiming and killing and nameless violence, and they have to get out, right now, they have to save the lads, and he cries for his brother because they need him now, Thorin is wounded, can Balin not see that they have to get him out?

"Dwalin!" 

A strong hand grasps his wrists and shakes them. He blinks hard and sees Thorin look at him with clear blue eyes, bloodied but alive and conscious. "Dwalin," Thorin says again, firmly, calmly. "I'm fine. It just knocked me out for a moment."

Dwalin clutches his hand and looks around. There is no huge battle taking place. Fili and the guards are involved in a skirmish against what looks like a ragged group of bandits. In close combat the humans are no match for a troupe of well-trained dwarven soldiers. Dwalin's pony has come to a halt a few hundred yards behind them, clearly terrified and in pain but unwilling to run away. Thorin's mount lies dying in the snow. There is not a single orc in sight, and the sky is blue and clear.

Dwalin wishes fiercely that the earth would open up and swallow him.

"I'm sorry," he mutters and lets go of Thorin's hand. "I wasn't... let me see how they're doing."

"No." Thorin leans up on one elbow and grabs his arm. "They're doing well. You stay here. Take it slow."

"I don't have to..."

"Breathe, Dwalin." Thorin takes his face into both hand and pulls him close to lean Dwalin's forehead against his own. "All is well," he says quietly. "I'm here. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm sorry, Thorin." Dwalin buries one hand on his friend's thick black locks, lets the touch calm him and ground him. "I thought... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lost control."

"Nonsense," Thorin scoffs. "I know. I _know_. But it's over."

"It's over," Dwalin repeats, and then they just hold each other until Fili comes running to their side, anxious to see how they're doing.

 

It takes them almost twelve hours to reach Dain's halls. Thorin is unhappy about the loss of his favourite pony and refuses to take Fili's, until the lad threatens to leave him behind without a map to show the way - not that the map would help much, in Thorin's case. But this means that Fili must walk, as Dwalin needs to ride the pack horse, and with his wounded pony in tow their journey takes far longer than it should. But they are met with a warm welcome, and after all wounds are tended to and stiff limbs warmed in a hot bath, their hosts proceed to lift everyone's spirits with ale and roasted meat.

It is a fine feast, but Dwalin finds it difficult to enjoy himself. He is profoundly grateful when Thorin decides to retire early. They share Dain's most impressive guest room, which does not involve much luxury because their folk don't care much about soft blankets and plushy carpets; yet the mosaics of glittering jewels and fine strands of silver and gold are among the finest pieces of dwarven craftmanship Dwalin has ever seen.

Thorin stretches comfortably on the furs of their bedstead and gestures for Dwalin to join him. "Now, Dwalin," he demands, and for a moment Dwalin is forcefully reminded of the fact that his lover also happens to be his king. "Tell me what's bothering you."

Dwalin looks at him wearily. He would like to deny everything, but they both know he might as well spare himself the trouble.

"I was useless today," he admits. "I am your personal guard. This should not have happened."

"T'was bad luck. How were you supposed to fight without a horse?"

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

Dwalin grits his teeth and does not reply.

Thorin moves closer and reaches for his hand. He cradles it in his own and begins to run a finger along the tattoos, then turns it around and caresses the tender skin around the wrist. Dwalin lets him.

"Let me guess what happened," Thorin says at last. "You found yourself back at Erebor. You were calling for Balin. It was the Battle of the Five Armies, was it not?"

Dwalin meets his eyes in surprise. Thorin looks very calm and serious, and he is still caressing Dwalin's wrist. "What did you see, Dwalin?" he asks quietly. "Did you see the orcs that surrounded us before they struck us down? Was it the arrow that pierced my chest? Did you smell the blood and hear the screams when our kin and allies were slaughtered by Azog's army?"

"How do you know?" Dwalin's voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

Thorin smiles sadly. "Azanulbizar."

"You mean you..."

"Every day, at first. It got better after a while, but it never wholly stopped."

"This has never happened before," Dwalin argues. "Not like this. Not in a way that makes me useless in battle."

"You're never useless in battle," Thorin scoffs. "The idea is ridiculous."

Dwalin lets himself sink onto the furs and runs a hand through Thorin's hair, disentangling the thick strands, idly playing with the bead that holds one of the king's narrow braids. Thorin watches him thoughtfully.

"It almost paralyzed me during the Battle of Erebor," he admits after a while.

"Huh?"

"Remember when we were waiting for the ambush? We were watching the battle and I felt..." He draws a deep breath. "It was Azanulbizar all over again. I thought I heard my grandfather. I thought I heard Frerin. I don't know I have ever been so..."

"Terrified," Dwalin finishes softly.

"Aye." Thorin catches the wandering hand and holds it tightly. "Does that make me a lesser king?"

Dwalin just glares at him.

"You never have to be ashamed," Thorin continues. "You are the bravest dwarf I know. Don't be harsher on yourself than on anybody else."

"Says the pot to the kettle."

They share a smile, and Dwalin closes his eyes to think for a while. Thorin's broad hand cradles the side of his face, spreading safety and warmth. They are both damaged, in spirit as much as in body, and maybe it is time to admit it to himself. Maybe it does not even matter. They have achieved what they believed impossible, have reclaimed the Mountain for their people and for those they see as their children, and they are still alive and together. If these things come with a price, so be it. They can deal with it as they have dealt with everything else.

He opens his eyes to see Thorin's face very close to his own, handsome and solemn and full of quiet affection. "We'll have to look out for each other, then," he tells his friend.

"Don't we always?" Thorin gives him a lop-sided grin. "One of these days you're going to cause a diplomatic incident while I'm not watching..."

"...because you got lost on the way to the throne room."

Thorin shuts him up with a kiss and rolls on top of him, and Dwalin slides his palms under Thorin's tunic to grab a nice handful of royal arse.

Maybe, he decides, they are not so bad off after all.


	9. Prompt: Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is a prequel to “Dust of Snow”. The only thing that’s relevant to know is that in this verse Dwalin keeps a very important secret from Thorin, and Thorin suspects but has promised not to ask.
> 
> Oh, and there's sex in this chapter.

Dwarves are a secretive people. Even if it was not in their nature to begin with, which no one can tell by now, they have learned to make it their way in the many generations that saw them betrayed, used, wronged and misunderstood. Now they guard their secrets as they guard the treasures of their people: forever watchful, because they know they can trust no one. 

 

Night has fallen over the valley in the Eastern foothills of the Misty Mountains. The soft glow of the fire does not reach very far, but a bright moon illuminates the silvery outlines of rocks and trees and the sleeping forms of their companions. A faint curl of smoke rises from Balin's pipe, and Glóin's hands are busy with carving work. It does not matter if they see him and Dwalin go, Thorin reasons. Both of them know their secret, which is not really a secret at all, just a private matter they will not advertise in public. Not in the presence of outsiders like Tharkûn and the Halfling.

"What now?" rumbles Dwalin's voice near his left ear, and Thorin catches his friend's hand to pull him along. Balin looks up as they slip away behind a boulder. He doesn't seem happy, probably because he worries about stray orcs or wild animals, but Thorin and Dwalin can take care of themselves. Besides, there was no time for privacy since their stay in Rivendell. They brushed death more than once in just a few days, and neither of the two needs words to understand the other's need for intimacy.

Rivendell, Thorin thinks as they walk away from the fire, proved once again that they are not the only ones to value a secret. Tharkûn knows decidedly more about this journey than he chooses to share. He may think himself mysterious as he tells his dwarven companions only what he deems necessary for them to know, but Thorin finds it annoying. It is their quest. They are the ones about to put their lives on the line, and the wizard's thight-lipped secrecy may cost them dearly one day.

And then there is the Halfling, who turns out to be full of surprises. He does not know if Bilbo keeps his secrets purposefully or is not even aware of them. Thorin owes him his life, and even more remarkable are the tender threads of friendship that begin to grow between them. But there is also something else; lately Thorin feels like that Bilbo is shrouded in a secret, a shadow lurking just outside Thorin's mind, or maybe he is truly losing his senses.

It is easy to find a sheltered hiding-place, with plenty of trees and bushes and rocks nearby. They do not stray far from the camp; Thorin can still smell the smoke of their fire. For a moment they halt to observe their surroundings, but the world around them is calm and still, and the eerie sounds of nature merge with the soft gurgle of a stream that glitters in the moonlight. Perhaps this place keeps its secrets too; a part of them will have to stay forever watchful.

He pushes Dwalin gently against a boulder. Dwalin grins and slings an arm around his waist to pull him close, and then they are kissing, slowly, languidly, savoring each moment because they are alive against all odds. Thorin slides his palms across thick muscles, which causes Dwalin to shrug off his coat impatiently and then his hands are on Thorin's backside and his tongue is in Thorin's mouth and Thorin moans.

Dwalin is the only one to have ever seen him so vulnerable. He is Thorin's closest friend, the companion of his heart, and yet there are secrets they keep from each other, or at least he is sure Dwalin does, because sometimes his friend says things that do not make sense and then looks at him strangely and begs him not to ask, and now Dwalin opens Thorin's belt and tears at his trousers. They do not talk; they rarely do while they indulge.

He trusts Dwalin, of course he does, if he didn't he would never allow this dwarrow to lay him open and touch him, touch both of them as he does now in one calloused hand, to build up a rhythm that is reflected in Dwalin's breath, in heated, shallow kisses, and Thorin clutches Dwalin's body and thrusts into his hand and thinks that Dwalin doesn't know all of him either because he has never told him what he fears most, deep down, which he will never tell anyone but if they reach Erebor he may fail and then they all will see, and Dwalin groans and clutches his buttocks and Thorin stifles a cry and none of it matters anymore.

 

It is in their nature, Thorin thinks as they settle near the fire again, with Dwalin's hand placed on his hip in a not very secretive way. They guard their secrets against the world, and they guard them against each other too, because dwarves were made from rock and a rock is self-sufficient. He will not burden Dwalin with his weakness. He must remain strong, for he cannot disappoint the hopes of his kin and friends and forefathers. He is not allowed to fail.

Yet the warm weight at his back makes all secrets easier to bear.


	10. Prompt: Conflict and Reconciliation

"I am not my grandfather," Thorin says into the darkness of the tent. It has been almost an hour since they settled down to sleep. The king's voice is hardly audible over the sound of the heavy rain outside, which would have been cosy on a hunting trip years ago, but today is not. Perhaps he had not even meant the others to hear him. Balin is still snoring, but a soft rustle comes from Dís' lair. Dwalin rolls over and leans onto his forearms. "Nay," he agrees. "You're not. Who says?"

"No one," Thorin replies, a little too quickly.

Dwalin snorts. "And sure they shouldn't. Not that Thrór wasn't a great dwarf, mind. Folk who talk badly about him will have to answer to me."

"And to me." 

There is a silence Dwalin does not like. It is not the comfortable silence the two of them share so often; this particular silence tells Dwalin that something is eating at his friend who refuses to admit as much.

"So what do people say?" he tries again.

Thorin makes a frustrated sound. Dwalin can see his outline clearly in the darkness, and now the soft glow of Thorin's eyes turns towards him.

"There is talk," he admits reluctantly. "People worry. It is within their right, I grant."

"I don't," Dwalin says sharply. "They have lost much, aye, and the wounds of Azanulbizar are still fresh. But Thror's failings are not your own." 

The faint light of Thorin's eyes turns away. "My father..." he says, and breaks off.

"We do not even know what happened to him," Dwalin retorts. "All you have done so far is to rally our spirits and helped us move on. You are doing well by our folk. They should be grateful."

Thorin is silent for so long that Dwalin begins to think he won't talk again, but he does.

"They speak of a curse," he says very quietly. "A streak of madness in Durin's line." 

"Codswallop," Dwalin returns with feeling. "People get sick. It happens. It's got nothing to do with you."

"No, it doesn't." The young king rolls to his side and effectively ends the conversation. Dwalin hears the doubt in his tone all too clearly, but he has no idea how to dispel it.

 

"I am not my grandfather," Thorin snarls, and his knuckles are white as his hand clenches around the slender railing.

Dwalin casts a longing gaze towards their quarters, which may be full of pretentious Elvish knick-knack but is spacious enough for a decent round of drinking, complete with song and dance. Nori has just reappeared with several bottles of wine, but of course their leader chooses to brood on the balcony instead. Always brooding these days, Thorin is, surely more than he used to. Dwalin understands him all too well; like no other he knows the weight that lies on his friend's shoulder, the obligation to succeed, the fear of failure. But even the king who set out to change the fate of the Erebor Dwarves must allow himself some levity.

So Dwalin steps to his friend's side and places a heavy hand on Thorin's waist. It is a strategic maneuver, for the physical contact will likely draw Thorin's attention to the fact that Dwalin's skin is still slightly damp, and from there on to the relative sparseness of clothes that covers it. Dwalin intends to use this to his full advantage. "You missed the bath," he remarks suggestively. But Thorin does not even look at him. 

This happens sometimes. Now and then Thorin is caught up so tightly in his worries that he seems lost to the world. Even for Dwalin it takes a while to coax him out of this state, and it requires a change of strategy. 

"What brought this about?" he demands, casually leaning against his friend's shoulder. Thorin shrugs. Dwalin nudges him none too gently. 

"Elvish drivel," Thorin manages through clenched teeth, and Dwalin would very much like to punch someone.

"What did they say?"

"Nothing worth of note," Thorin snaps, which is obviously a lie.

"Stop being such an ass." 

Thorin remains stubbornly silent. The moonlight paints deep shadows onto his handsome face and is reflected in his eyes. Dwalin runs a hand through the shimmering black hair.

"Who cares what a bunch of tree-huggers think?" he asks. "They may be mighty old, but they know naught about Dwarrows." 

"It was Lord Elrond," Thorin admits finally, as if this made a difference just because the Lord of Imladris is slightly less obnoxious than the rest of his kin. Dwalin snorts. It is the same wherever they go: people look at them and assume the worst, and for Thorin it means that they wonder, openly or behind closed doors, how long his sanity will last. The worst thing is that Thorin wonders about it too. Dwalin hopes fervently that his friend will never break under the strain and actually lose his mind.

"He disagrees with our quest," Thorin continues, stating the obvious. "You don't think this quest is madness, Dwalin, do you?" 

"It may be madness, but we have to do it," Dwalin says quietly. "Not your fault."

"But what if..." Thorin begins, and then his mouth snaps shut. Dwalin waits a long while, but when no more words are forthcoming, he slings an arm around his friend's waist. "Âzyungâl," he declares and points his head towards their bright quarters, "You need a drink."

 

"I am not my grandfather," Thorin says stubbornly, and Balin frowns and worries.

Dwalin does not much like either of them right now. It may be just because they are standing on the doorstep of a mountain with a big dragon inside, and now it damn well sounds like it has just woken up. This is not the time for personal conflicts. Balin is wrong, he must be, because Thorin is strong and wise and has led them so far, and for Mahal's sake there is no need to bring up Thrór right now. Bilbo is their friend; of course they will come to his aid. Surely Thorin thinks so, too. It is no wonder if he is wound a little tightly, here at the brink of both triumph and failure.

"His name is Bilbo," Balin says reproachfully, and Thorin growls and steps back into the narrow hallway without a backwards glance. Dwalin tells himself that he doesn't mind. Sure, at any other time where they might be walking to their deaths Thorin would have met his eyes and touched his hand before they went, but he is not a sentimental fool. This quest is bigger than him or Thorin or any other of their Company, and there is a dragon at the end of it.

Instead it is Balin who puts a hand on his arm and gestures to follow. Dwalin does not like the look on his face, does not like to remember that his brother can read people better than anyone, because right now he is _wrong, wrong, wrong_. There is no reason to look so afraid.

 

 _I am not my grandfather_ , Thorin's voice echoes in Dwalin's mind, and he leans against the wall and buries his face in shaking hands. His blood is pounding in his ears. He wants to go out and fight. Perhaps he will reach Dáin, or perhaps he will be slaughtered in no time, but he doesn't think he cares much. Not now that Thorin looked at him with murder in his eyes and a sword in his hand, swaying on the spot like a mindless drunkard. Not now that he was wrong and Balin was right, and what Thorin feared all the time has happened and no one could stop it. They gave all they had, friendship, bravery, loyalty, love, and all it brought them was a single moment of lucidity that killed the last shreds of hope. "Get out, before I kill you," Thorin said, his voice thick with tears, and in that moment they both knew there was no more Dwalin could do, no way to save his beloved friend who feels himself lose his mind and will drag them all to doom as well.

Time runs on, merciless like dripping water that caves a rock. His kin are still dying outside. He should go to the company and talk to Balin. They should make a plan. He cannot bring himself to move just yet.

There is a soft clatter in the vast hall to his left. Perhaps Thorin is coming after him now. He is unarmed; he should move. Instead he stays rooted to the spot and stares at the wall, a remarkable structure of rock, in fact, he has never seen this particular sort of green marble anywhere else. He is still contemplating it when a movement near the door catches his eye. 

"Dwalin," Thorin says quietly.

Dwalin looks at him and hope flares in his chest, stupid, senseless hope. Thorin does not wear the crown. He has shed Thrór's heavy armor in favour of simple chainmail. There is hope in his eyes, and despair.

"Dwalin, âzyungâl," his friend repeats, his voice rougher than usual. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I see clearly now. We must go and help Dáin. All else can wait." 

"Please," Dwalin says without meaning to, and he opens his arms and Thorin stumbles towards him, holds onto him like he is drowning. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Thorin chokes, and Dwalin strokes his friend's hair and kisses the tears off his face and hardly realizes he himself is crying too.

It takes a while before their tears run dry, time that could have been used to go out and save lives, but they need it and may not get it later. "You're a hero," Dwalin mutters into Thorin's hair. "Don't let anyone tell you that you aren't." 

"We have no time for sentiment," says Thorin and wipes his face on Dwalin's tunic. "We will join the fight. Chances are we won't come back. Are you with me?"

"Always," Dwalin returns. "Though I wish there was time for a strategy beyond charging blindly and hoping we find Dáin somewhere in the melee."

"Erebor once had a great strategist," Thorin says with a rueful smile, "but I am not my grandfather. Come now, let us find the others." 

He catches Dwalin's hand, and together they walk back through Erebor's vast halls to join their companions.


	11. Prompt: Encounters with other races

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again this ficlet is for [Selina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha) \- because landlords are trouble sometimes. Here, have a bar fight!

"I'm going to kill him." Dwalin drained his mug in one go, then slammed it down with so much force it left a crack in the old wood of the tavern table. 

"Won't do us any good, will it?" Thorin said gloomily. "Can't afford to have the guards take us, on top of everything..."

"Oh, shut it," his friend growled, and for once Thorin felt too exhausted to object. The day had been long and fruitless, like so many the two spent in the villages of men, selling their skill and labour to those who would never pay enough for it. Yet it was better than nothing, for a few months at least, a meagre income that would help to feed their kin over a long and harsh winter.

Their work was good and cheap, which was why they had never seriously worried over being thrown out.

"We can make a camp for tonight," Thorin mused, running a hand over his tired face. "Tomorrow we'll travel on. We'll find something else."

"Aye, like we always do," Dwalin said bitterly. "I still can't believe he had the gall to tell you to your face that he wants us to get out..."

"He said he needed the room for his kin." Thorin snorted. "Like hell he does."

There was no need to ask for reasons. They were dwarves, and they were different. Wherever they went, this was reason enough for most.

 

Their sparse quarters were located in the upper room of the settlement's only tavern. More precisely, their former quarters, as the landlord had informed Thorin earlier that day just as the latter had returned from the forge, tired and trailing dirt all over the floor. He had been tempted to punch the treacherous smile off the Man's face, but they could not afford trouble, especially when it was going to cost them money. 

They packed their things quickly and efficiently. There was not much to take care of. Thorin watched his friend as Dwalin fastened the straps of his travelling gear with practiced movements. At least Dwalin was with him, the one constant in his life who never strayed far from his side, even while they roamed the mountains during summertime. Dwalin was, in fact, the only reason why his father allowed this venture. It brought them some much-needed coin, but Thrain was not happy to see his son take work among Men. He may have had a point.

"Come," grunted Dwalin and heaved his pack onto his shoulder, and then, loudly, '"Aye, we're leaving already!"

The person he was adressing stayed wisely out of their way.

 

"I hope he doesn't find the dead rat beneath the firewood," Dwalin said thoughtfully when they were wrapped in their bedrolls later that night. "At least not until it stinks."

For some reason the idea worked wonders to improve Thorin's mood. It almost made up for the fact that they were now sleeping in a tent, with no solid roof over their head, and freshly out of work as well. He reached for Dwalin's hand in the darkness. "You act like a dwarfling," he declared fondly, and Dwalin chuckled.

 

Thorin awoke the next morning to the sound of hooves trampling on the road nearby. There were loud voices too, rough, boisterous voices. He glimpsed out of the tent to see six ragged-looking Men mounted on remarkably fine horses, and even from the distance he could see that their clothes and weapons were stained with blood.

"Bunch of cut-throats," Dwalin growled beside him. "Look at 'em. Guess how they spent the night."

That much was easy to tell. Honourable Men generally traveled by day and sought rest during the night, and these few did little to dispel any doubt about their profession.

The dwarven tent was hidden in the bushes well enough to allow its tenants to overlook the road without being seen, and so both Thorin and Dwalin watched as the group approached the two soldiers who guarded the entrance to the settlement. It was a small one and did not hold many fighters; the villagers were not prepared for unrest. It seemed that the newcomers were aware of the fact, for they were certainly not cautious. They spoke a few harsh words and were allowed to pass, but as soon as they had vanished out of sight, one of the guards took off in a run. The other remained behind, looking anxious,

"There's trouble ahead," Dwalin said darkly. "I doubt they... What do you think you're doing?"

Thorin had already fastened his belt and thrust Deathless into its sheath. "Just making sure no one gets hurt," he snapped and shoved his friend aside. Dwalin grabbed his arm.

"This is none of our business."

"I won't stand by and watch..."

"They threw us out!"

"There are children in there," Thorin growled, "and they don't teach their womenfolk to fight. We'll just have a look, and if all is well, we can go. Are you coming?"

He pulled away from Dwalin's grip and walked back towards the village. His friend cursed quietly, yet still he followed.

 

The remaining guard appeared even more anxious when the two dwarrows approached. It was gratifying to watch, yet the man was still helpful enough to point them in the right direction when they asked him where the ruffians had gone.

"I'm not setting foot into that tavern again," Dwalin groused, and Thorin suppressed a grin because his friend would do so readily enough if he himself went in first. The tavern was almost empty at this time of day. The smell of stale coffee and cold fat clung to the air, more prominent now that it was not covered by food and pipeweed. One of the tables was occupied by three elderly men Thorin had seen there more often than not. The six travellers had settled at another. Thorin pulled Dwalin towards a small table in a corner; no one paid attention to them.

"Amateurs," he mouthed, and Dwalin chuckled. His friend appeared relaxed and disinterested, but his left hand was resting right beside Keeper's handle.

"Landlord," one of the newcomers shouted, banging his fist on the table. "Give us a round of ale, will you! And we're hungry too."

"Hard night's work, eh?" Dwalin muttered.

The landlord appeared readily enough. He was a tall, thin man with a dark beard by the name of Arnulf whose wit was as quick as his service. The trait had made Thorin respect him to some degree - at least he found himself on the wrong end of the bargain. He eyed the assembly with obvious disdain as he placed a number of mugs on the table. 

"Ale, food, and beds for the night." said the bulky blonde fellow who seemed to be the leader of the lot. "We'll pay in the morning."

"I don't have any rooms at the moment," Arnulf replied smoothly, which made Thorin grudgingly admire his guts. "And you can't get food if you don't pay straightaway. Rules of the house, I'm afraid, I don't mean to imply..."

The blonde man rose to his feet. He was as tall as the landlord, but much broader, and one hand foddled the hilt of the wicked-looking dagger in his belt. 

"You'll make space for us alright," he growled. "Clear some rooms if you have to. And we'll pay when we've got a mind to."

Thorin saw the landlord's eyes dart towards the door. One of the elderly regulars was missing; Thorin had not seen him slip out. He was probably getting help, but things were escalating fast.

Arnulf hesitated, clearly torn between defiant refusal and the very sensible protection of his own skin. "I'll get the food," he muttered and disappeared in the back room.

Dwalin stretched out in his chair. His feet were dangling in the air - Thorin's too , they were used to furniture that was not made for their kind - but his smirk would have made Thorin very anxious, had he been in the men's place. 

The movement must have attracted the attention of the group, for they began to mutter and point at them. Their leader turned and mustered them with narrowed eyes.

"Anything you've got to say on the matter?"

"Nay," Thorin returned casually. 

"You'd better not," one of the others shouted. "We'd throw you out by your dirty beards!"

"They don't even have long beards," a third one threw in. "Trying to pass for ugly little Men, are they?"

Dirty laughter rose from the table, and Thorin shared an amused look with Dwalin. The feeble slander was not enough to provoke them. These folk might be vicious, but they could not have much experience in dealing with dwarrows. They were in for a nasty surprise. Dwalin grinned and flexed his knuckles, but Thorin put a warning hand on his arm.

Arnulf stepped back in, carrying a large tray with bread and cheese. He looked towards the group, then towards Thorin and Dwalin, and Thorin was satisfied to see him turn pale. 

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"We'd like to have breakfast," Thorin growled. "And we'll pay for it, like any decent folk."

"Keep your dirty little mouth shut," the leader of the ruffians barked. "Who's ever heard of decent dwarves? Cunning little rats they are, always try to get the better of you. And stinking too."

"At least we don't stink of blood right now," Dwalin pointed out, not grinning any longer. Arnulf's eyes darted nervously from one to the other.

"It would be better if you left now," he told them teresly.

"Oh, but where's the fun in that?" shouted another of the Men and took a large swing from his ale. The successful ventures of the night must have made the whole group exuberant and itching for a fight. Good, Thorin thought grimly; let them take it out on the two persons who could put them in their place.

"You're right, Grimbald," the leader smirked. "Why don't we buy these poor fellows a pint? It's not like they can afford one on their own."

Dwalin's muscles unter Thorin's hand flexed. His friend looked like he would very much like to punch somebody in the face.

"We don't drink with thieves," Thorin returned calmly. Arnulf paled and opened his mouth to object, but before he could intervene the leader shot to his feet and advanced to their table.

"What did you say, you little mongrel?"

"We don't drink," Thorin repeated pointedly, "with thieves." He didn't turn around to face the Man. Still he fully expected the fist aimed at his head, and it was not even expertly wielded. Thorin ducked, caught the wrist and twisted it with a very satisfying crunch. The Man cried out in pain and fury while his companions jumped to their feet, and Dwalin slid from his stool with a lazy grin. 

"You're going to regret this, you dirty little bastard," the ruffian panted, "we're going to nail your heads to the door for anyone to see…"

"Come and get ‘em," Dwalin suggested, and all hell broke loose.

They stood back to back as was their habit, fighting with their fists to avoid major bloodshed that could get them into trouble with the guards; there was no need for weapons either, for these people were furious and over-confident and no real threat to them. Murderers and thieves they may be, but, Thorin mused as he punched one attacker in a way that might prevent any future offspring, clearly they had never faced trained warriors before. Behind him Dwalin slammed one Man against the wall and then grabbed a stool to defend himself from an ugly short sword. "Put your toy away, you'll hurt yourself," he sneered, and Thorin smiled grimly. It wasn't very nice, he decided while he blocked a blow with a bottle and kicked hard at a knee, but the violence was satisfying, a means to get rid of the frustration that was gnawing at his very bones. The only trouble was that it was over far too soon. Before long they were surrounded by six moaning figures, all of them incapacitated but none fatally injured. Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a satisfied look. Both were drenched in sweat and slightly bloodied, but not much worse to wear.

Then Arnulf emerged from the door that led to the kitchen, white as a sheet and clutching a large knife in his hand, which he dropped when he saw the mess of limbs on the floor.

"The guards will be here soon," he said, sounding awed.

"Good," Thorin returned. "See that they clear away the rubble." He nudged the leader's side in disgust. The Man glared at him, murderous but clearly terrified. "There's something you should remember," Thorin informed him. "Never underestimate your enemies. Looks can be deceiving, you see." He smiled grimly. "And stay away from this village; others too, if you can. My people are in the area, you see, and word spreads quickly amongst us. You might want to find yourself a decent job."

The man was spared from an answer by a commotion at the door as the guards arrived, and Thorin let them deal with the wounded troublemakers. He met Dwalin's eye and gestured towards the door, but a hand on his shoulder interrupted him. He looked up into the pale, bearded face of Arnulf the innkeeper.

"I am awfully sorry, Master Dwarf," said the Man. "You saved us from an unsavory lot, and let no one say that my people do not know how to show their gratitude. You may stay as long as you wish."

There was a certain satisfaction in that, but no dwarf with a proper sense of honour would have accepted the offer. Thorin glared, Dwalin grunted derisively, and Arnulf shuffled his feet.

"There may have been an... error in judgment," he admitted. "I had no idea... that is to say, it would be an honour."

Dwalin opened his mouth and Thorin, knowing full well what his friend intended to say, drove an elbow into his ribs.

"We were just leaving," he said instead and grabbed his bag.

"Ah." The landlord looked nervously from one to the other. "In that case, might I make a suggestion... If you follow the main road for three hours, then turn right at the boulder that looks like a bear and follow the path into the valley, you will reach a settlement of decent size. My cousin lives there, so I happen to know that the blacksmith is beyond his prime and would surely find use for some helping hands."

Thorin stared at him. Arnulf gave him an uneasy smile and twisted his hands into the rim of his worn sleeves. It did not help Thorin to understand, for it was his experience that Men usually had a motive for their actions, and surely Arnulf had nothing to gain from this. Why, then, did he help them? Could they even trust him?

Eventually he decided to settle for a short nod and drew Dwalin out by his sleeve. His friend followed quickly but halted on the threshold. "Oi, landlord," he said sullenly. "Before you give the room to someone, you'd do well to check the firewood."

 

It was no fortune they made in that summer, nor the summer to come that saw them return to the same place, but Arnulf's suggestion had been a good one. There was work aplenty, and they earned enough to make the winter bearable. The most remarkable thing was the friendly spirit they encountered wherever they went, which made Thorin suspect that Arnulf's tale had quickly followed in their wake. Still it surprised him, for he was used to mistrust, not to gratitude and kindness.

"They are a strange folk," Dwalin told him one evening, looking pensievely into his ale that reflected the flickering firelight. "Quick to condemn and easy to please. Fickle."

"Aye," Thorin agreed, but in his heart he was ready to admit that maybe not all of them were quite as bad as he had thought.


	12. Prompt: Hurt/Comfort

Thorin's skin on the left side of his chest was almost black. Blood was smeared over his shoulder and into the coarse body hair, dark streaks that merged with the tattoed lines on his upper arm. The warg's teeth had broken his armour in several places and sunk deeply into the unprotected flesh. Dwalin watched quietly as Óin cleaned the wounds and applied a foul-smelling salve. Both the healer and his friend kept glaring at him, but knew better than to ask him to budge.

"This will take a few days," Óin declared eventually with a last critical gaze at Thorin's head wound. "I would tell you not to strain yourself, but..." 

He rolled his eyes and gathered his equipment. Dwalin continued to watch him, and Óin, correctly reading his stance, threw him a dirty look.

"Aye, I'm leaving already," he snapped. "I said no streuous activities. Remember that, lads."

Thorin snorted, and the old healer shook his head disapprovingly before he walked away.

"As if," Thorin muttered. "In front of all these oafs."

Dwalin chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Brave oafs," he said. "You should've seen them."

"I did. Wouldn't trade them for an army."

They fell silent for a while. After all the excitement of the past hours, after stinking tunnels and screeching goblins and burning wood and wargs and orcs and -, after all of this the world seemed almost too peaceful now. Birds were twittering somewhere in the trees, and the summer sun painted a pretty pattern of light and shade onto the rock. The breeze was moving a few silvery strands in Thorin's blood-soaked hair. 

Dwalin was at a loss for words. He was itching for a round of sparring now, but Thorin was not in the shape. Perhaps he should have asked Dori about it earlier.

It was his friend who spoke first. "Are you hurt?" he demanded. "Or any of the others?" 

"A few scratches here and there. Nothing worth mentioning."

Thorin nodded and fell silent again. After a while Dwalin touched his arm, ran his fingers lightly over the bare, unbroken skin. "We got away," he said. "It was close. But we made it."

"Aye," Thorin said. His tone and face were devoid of emotion. Dwalin knew what it meant, and he knew the reason for it, but there was nothing to make it better.

"We made it," Dwalin said again, and then he clenched his hand around his friend's arm in sudden fury. "What in the name of Mahal possessed you? You nearly died, Thorin. You were nearly _beheaded_ and I couldn't do anything and you... and we..." 

"I know that," Thorin snarled, loudly, for Dwalin's voice had rised through his outburst. "I'm not going to hide on a tree from that scum..."

"But you can't take him out alone," Dwalin snapped, before he realized his mistake. Thorin opened his mouth, closed it again, and got to his feet. He was slowed down by his wounds, so Dwalin beat him to it.

"Don't you walk out on me now." He clutched his friend's arm again, firmly. "I'm sorry. Shouldn't have said that."

"You were right, weren't you?" Thorin eyed his tunic furiously, as he was unable to bend down and pick it up. "I didn't take him out alone. Let's see if they still call me Oakenshield now."

"You still conquered him..."

"I didn't kill him. All this time I thought..."

"You did what anyone could possibly do, and more."

"No, I didn't," Thorin said furiously, and Dwalin knew him well enough to hear the pain behind his words. "I failed."

"Thorin, no."

"The next time I meet him, I swear to Mahal..."

"No!" Dwalin cried, and there it was again, the naked fear he felt so rarely. "Not alone, not when I can't follow. You'll die."

Thorin's jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

"Thorin," Dwalin said, stepping close now and gripping his friend's arms, gently as to avoid the injury. "The quest is dangerous enough as it is. Please, my friend, my love, my shield-brother. My _King_. We need you." He looked into Thorin's eyes, blue as the summer sky, and searched for a reassurance he knew he would not find. "We need you _alive_."

"I cannot promise that," Thorin said roughly, but he drew Dwalin into his arms, and for a long while they stood together with their hands twined in each other's hair and Thorin's breath on Dwalin's cheek and the sun on their skin, and somewhere else there the spectres of their past were waiting to hunt them down.

There was not much comfort they could give each other in the face of a dragon and a deadly foe; but for this moment, Dwalin thought as he ran his hand through the blood and sweat on Thorin's back, it had to be enough.


	13. Prompt: Treasure (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter of two. Note that this ficlet follows movie canon, so there'll be references to major character death in the second part. Also the Dworin in this part is blink-and-you'll-miss-it because Dwalin thinks it isn't Elrond's business.
> 
> And once again I used the idea that dwarven eyes glow in the dark, because I like it.

Elrond Half-Elven would be the first to admit that even the ways of the Immortals were questionable at times. He had seen so much in the many centuries of his life that Mithrandir's decision to lead a party of dwarves to Imladris might seem a minor inconvenience, and it could have been, were they not playing with dragon's fire. For years the Grey Wizard had been worrying, pondering, watching out for the ancient evil that had been conquered so many lifetimes ago. Elrond remembered it as well as he did. And it was true that he, too, felt a certain amount of pity for Thrór's folk whose riches had been taken by Smaug. A tragedy for Thorin Oakenshield and his kin; in the course of history, merely a footnote. Worse had befallen other folk, and they had recovered just as the Erebor dwarves would, in time.

It was no reason to wake a dragon. 

The fact that these people where his guests now could very well be counted as an inconverience, minor or not. Their raunchy celebration had lasted well into the night, disturbing every living creature in the valley, and Elrond did not care to know how many pieces of valuable furniture had been wilfully ruined. Now it was past midnight and he had decided to take a stroll in the gardens, to revel in the peace that had finally settled over the ancient buildings of beauty and light that were his home. 

It was Elrond's firm belief that no more peaceful realm than Imladris could be found in all Arda. He was well acquainted with the ethereal beauty of the Woods of Lórien, and deeply cherished his kin who dwelled there; but, he mused as he walked down the marbled steps toward the gardens, the earthly feel of his own home held his heart in a way no other place would. Perhaps it was his human blood speaking to him; it was a thought that filled him with sadness. 

The gardens stretched out in silence, trees and statues bathed in silver moonlight while the torches shone yellow over the ancient cobbles of the path beneath his feet. The constant roar of the falls drowned out the softer sounds of nature, but even in the darkness he could see the movements of small animals in the bushes. 

On a rock beside the fountain sat a dwarf. 

Elrond halted, confused and slightly annoyed. His guests were supposed to have retired by now, and anyway they usually clung together in loud, obnoxious groups. This dwarf was still as a statue except for his hands that were moving - carving, Elrond realized as he stepped closer, and he stared into the water as if he was deeply lost in thought. It was an disconcerting sight, especially since this was the large, burly warrior whose booming voice could usually be heard a mile off. He appeared to be one of Oakenshield's closest confidants, and Elrond thought he had heard his name before - a member of the royal line himself, if he was not mistaken - but his manners were an entirely different thing. Elrond did his best to respect Durin's folk, but found it difficult to like them. Still, once the initial annoyance about finding his favourite resting place occupied had passed, there was something about this scene that invoked his curiosity. 

"Did you find your dwellings satisfactory?" he asked. 

The dwarf whirled around and glared at him. Elrond had been glared at a lot, so he was only mildly impressed. He raised an eyebrow. 

"Aye," the dwarf growled and turned towards the fountain again. For a moment they remained in silence; then the dwarf looked up. "I thought they said we could go wherever we wanted."

"I did not tell you to leave," Elrond pointed out. "I was merely intrigued to see you here. I have never met a dwarf who valued the quiet of nature." 

"You haven't met many of us, then." 

"Quite a number." He stepped closer and settled gracefully on the rim of the basin, within a fair distance of the dwarf who eyed him suspiciously. "The topic never came up." 

The warrior snorted and turned his attention towards the piece of wood in his hands. It looked like he was carving it into a bead, a remarkably intricate work for someone with such broad hands, and he had not even looked at it while they were talking. Elrond continued to watch him thoughtfully. He really looked like the paradigm of a dwarven fighter; huge for their standards, broad-shouldered, his features rough and scarred. Yet his thick fingers wielded the carving knife with uncanny skill, and bright eyes under his heavy brow betrayed a sharp mind. Now it seemed he had decided that he would not let himself be bothered by elven company, and ignore it instead. Elrond dipped his hand into the fountain and watched the clear wated drip of his fingers. It could be considered inpolite not to respect his guest's desire for privacy, but politeness did not seem to be a given for dwarves. More importantly Elrond was a scholar, and he had devoted a large part of his long life to learning. This dwarf evoked his curiosity, he realized, mainly because he had never dealt with one of his kin in such a casual manner.

"Dwalin, son of Fundin, is it not?" he asked. "You come from a renowned line of warriors." 

The dwarf blew some chunks of wood off his bead and eyed it critically. Elrond smiled indulgently. 

"Yet sometimes we are surprised by those we think we can judge fairly. That work is remarkable." 

The warrior snorted. "When did an elf ever judge a dwarf fairly?" he snapped. And with a glance at his bead he added, "This is nothing. A wee bit of practice to pass the time." 

"For your own use?"

"No." Dwalin glowered at him. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" 

"Not particularly, no," Elrond returned, purposefully misunderstanding the request. "I have seen many great examples of dwarven craftsmanship, of course. I know that the skill of your people knows no equal."

The dwarf picked another tool from his pocket and began to scratch a pattern of very fine lines into the wood. His eyes were glowing slightly in the dark as all dwarven eyes did, and Elrond knew that the faint light did not impair his vision. 

"Of course most of what I saw was made of precious jewels, of mithril and gold," Elrond added thoughtfully. 

"We can work with anything," Dwalin growled. "Stone, mostly. Also metal, gems or wood. Everything has a hidden…" He broke off, apparently remembering that he did not wish to talk. Elrond smiled. 

"A hidden what?" 

Dwalin frowned, but after a moment he elaborated, "A hidden structure. Your people preserve what is beautiful on the surface. My folk, we see the beauty behind things, the shapes that they are meant to have. We create." 

This was not what Elrond had learned about dwarves. The scriptures he had read spoke of dwarven greed, their desire for gold and precious gems, of pure lust to amass treasure. Craftsmanship seemed one more way to achieve this aim. But, he thought now as he watched Dwalin's nimble hands creating beauty from a piece of wood, admittedly all those scriptures were of elven origin. 

"May I see your work?" 

Dwalin halted and looked at him suspiciously. Elrond raised his eyebrows and waited. Eventually the dwarf rose, stepped closer and presented the bead on the palm of his hand. It was a thing of strange, foreign beauty. Carved lines, some of them fine as a single hair, formed a geometrical pattern that seemed slightly but purposefully irregular, as if created by a logic that denied itself to Elrond's thinking. It drew the gaze and kept it like a maze. On one side Dwalin had carved two runes, but Elrond knew better than to ask after those. 

"It is impressive," Elrond admitted. "Remarkable. I thought a dwarf lord would reject a material so common as a piece of wood." 

Dwalin gave him a sardonic smile. "Aye, that's what your folk would think, right? That we're just greedy. You think that's why we march towards Erebor? For gold and gemstones?" 

Elrond felt a small pang of guilt at the bitterness in the dwarf's voice. Dwalin was not entirely wrong. "The riches of Erebor are a legend," he said carefully. "Naturally I assumed that you wish to regain the treasure." 

"You have a strange idea of treasure," Dwalin huffed. "I'm not in it for the gold. Most of us aren't." 

"Is treasure not mithril and gold to you?" 

Dwalin looked at him in disbelief. "Is it to you?" he challenged. "Treasure is the work of my people. It is what they created with their own hands, or received as recompense for their craft. Treasure is..." He broke off and touched the large clasp that adorned his right ear. For a moment they stared at each other, then Dwalin's hand closed over his bead. "Good night," he said bluntly, and walked off. 

Elrond remained by the fountain for a long time, lost in thought.


	14. Prompt: Treasure (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Discussions of mortality. This wasn't easy to deal with, which is why it took so long.
> 
> Also, Dworin is not the focus here, though it is mentioned - indirectly. (Dwalin still refused to mention Thorin's name.) I thought Elrond's POV would be interesting to write, and it is, but as a result this fic is more about Elrond himself than Dworin. Dwarves just don't share much. Sorry about that; I still included it in the collection because it _was_ written for Dworin week, even if it went sideways.

The dwarves were gone when dawn came, and Elrond did not see Dwalin, son of Fundin, for many years. The summer of Middle Earth turned to autumn while a threat greater than any had seen in millennia came and went. And when the heir of Isildur was finally crowned king, Elrond knew that the age of the elves was over.

His daughter would not accompany him into the West.

Golden leafs littered the cobblestones of the yard when a party of six dwarrows arrived in Imladris. He knew them all, and was saddened to see their hair white and deep lines on their faces. Here were the last that remained of Bilbo's companions: Glóin, whose son Gimli had made himself a name and an Elven friend in the war; Bifur and Bofur, whose kinsman Bombur was not fit to travel any longer; and also Dori and Nori and Dwalin, who had each lost a brother in the mines of Moria. They wished to take their leave of Bilbo, for word had reached them that the Ring-Bearer would soon travel with Elrond's ships to Valinor.

Their celebration was not as raucous as it had been so many decades ago. They were old, and there was not much laughter among them as they spoke of times past and absent friends. Yet the ancient hobbit was overjoyed to see his friends, and Elrond made sure they were offered all the comfort and privileges of honored guests.

Later that night Elrond wandered down the open hallway towards the western part of the gardens when his musings were interrupted by voices, both familiar, yet not elven. He walked closer to find that on a bench between the slender columns sat Bilbo Baggins, and beside him was Dwalin, son of Fundin, with two pipes in his hand.

"... not the sort I usually have, but I thought you'd fancy something special," the old warrior was saying. "This traveled all the way from Gondor. Ah, but I wish you could've seen the markets of Erebor as they are now!"

"I wanted to come," Bilbo said thoughtfully. "But I was getting too footsore for that. Thank you, old friend," and he took the offered pipe into his hands. 

Elrond found it impolite to listen, so he continued to walk toward them until Bilbo looked up. "Good evening, Lord Elrond!" he said brightly. "I know you don't fancy a pipe, but maybe you would like to sit with us for a while? He's not..." he continued towards Dwalin, "that is, I know you don't feel overly graceful towards elves, but Elrond is a friend."

Dwalin looked up with a cautious half-smile. "I am aware."

"So am I," Elrond offered. "I remember our conversation well, son of Fundin. I was gratified to hear that you found that which you sought." 

"Aye, we did," Dwalin said, but his smile dropped and he averted his eyes. Bilbo looked quickly from one to the other.

"At a great cost," he chimed in. "Though these stubborn dwarves will always tell you it was worth it. I would have liked to see what Erebor has become now, to make sure for myself that there was some sense in it - as far as there can be, but well..." A shadow fell over his round face, and in the dim light of the lantern he looked as ancient as the stone. "I guess I shouldn't be the one to talk."

"Of course it was worth it." Dwalin's gruff voice disrupted the uneasy silence that followed Bilbo's words. "It is always worth standing up to evil, even if we do not profit ourselves."

Bilbo winced, and Elrond noticed that he rubbed his hand as if to erase a lingering sensation. 

"I am not sure I follow you," Elrond returned, purposefully avoiding the thoughts that had taken hold of Bilbo once again. The old hobbit was ever haunted by his demons, and it would help little to dwell on them now. "Did you not profit from the outcome of your quest? You reclaimed your home and the treasure of your people."

Dwalin blew a smoke ring into the air. It wafted between two columns and dissolved in the light breeze.

"I did not profit," he said after a while.

Bilbo looked up to meet Elrond's eyes. "Dwalin lost all that was treasure to him in the Battle of the Five Armies," he said quietly.

"Aye, and in Khazad-Dûm," the dwarf added sullenly. "Ain't much left for me here. But my time won't be much longer, so there's no need to fret about it."

Elrond settled on the windowsill. Dwalin's words confused him, and they also stirred an old and painful memory. "Are you saying that you welcome your mortality?" he inquired.

Dwalin gave him a long, silent stare under heavy white brows.

"Of course," he said at last. "I am tired, Master Elf. Never understood how your folk do it. Don't you ever feel you've done your share and deserve to rest?"

Elrond leant his head back against the stone and stared down into the gardens. The wind carried the faint tune of a flute, hardly audible over the rush of the falls. Its sweet notes formed a melody that spoke of unfulfilled longing. He thought of a conversation he had led so many mortal lifetimes ago, of a face that resembled his own, dark hair and sparkling grey eyes and a sad, knowing smile. The words he recalled, those that had broken his heart so that it could never be mended again, were almost the same as those Dwalin had spoken now. 

If only history was not repeating itself.

"My daughter," he admitted quietly, "chooses to forsake the immortal lands of Valinor." 

Bilbo sighed, a sound that spoke of pain and understanding. Dwalin looked up sharply. "So I have heard," he said.

"I confess that I struggle to understand her reasons." 

Dwalin and Bilbo exchanged a quick gaze. "Are you asking us for advice on mortality?" the dwarf asked slowly. Bilbo chuckled.

"Elrond will surprise you sometimes," he said. "I find it a most welcome trait. Elves can be a trifle self-important when it comes to other people's views. Mortals' views, anyway."

"I am aware that our own experiences are limited," Elrond returned. "Mortality lies quite outside our grasp. We pride ourselves of being unchained by the bonds of time; free to amass unlimited knowledge, unlimited wisdom. Not all of us used it wisely. Others have yet to learn that, even though a mortal life passes in the blink of an eye, it is no less worthy."

The old dwarf leant back on the bench, his white brows drawn into a scowl. He nodded slowly. Bilbo looked from one to the other with an expression of amused interest.

"Death itself is no stranger to us, for it comes to many sooner or later, but it is not the same as it is for you. How one could choose a mortal life, if the alternative is to persevere..." He shook his head. Perhaps it would be easier to understand if it was not his daughter they were talking about.

Bilbo began to laugh softly. Not for the first time Elrond was moved by worry for his friend's mind, for he had seen it slip into darkness or oblivion more than once. But when the hobbit looked up, his eyes were as keen as ever. "Why, my friend, you are asking two souls who have already endured far too long. We are experts on perseverance, Dwalin and I."

"You make it sound like a chore."

"Not quite." Bilbo smiled and took a deep draw from his pipe. "Life is a gift. There are so many moments to be treasured. The smell of apple pie fresh out of the oven. Lush colours of a summer garden, when the bees are buzzing in the flowers. A quiet moment in the library of Rivendell." He paused and looked sideways at Dwalin. "Having a smoke with an old friend. And dwarven celebrations. I'm quite fond of those too."

"Crafting," Dwalin said without looking up. "The moment you sense the shape of an object in its raw form, and feel it come alive under your hands. Making an instrument sing, getting lost in the tune. Embracing..." He paused. "Embracing the companion of your heart," he added quietly, reminiscently. Bilbo's face fell. He made a quick movement as if to touch the old dwarf, but then dropped the hand into his lap. Elrond remembered a wooden bead in Dwalin's hand many decades ago, and those who had fallen in the battle for Erebor. His heart ached in sympathy.

"But all those things are fleeting," Bilbo continued. "We receive, and we lose. We cannot truly keep anything of value. This is the beauty of life when it is given to us. This is why we are content to leave when our times comes."

For a long while the three of them sat in silence, each contemplating his own thoughts. There were millennia of memories, Elrond mused: treasured moments without count, each to be lived only once. There would be new moments, and others after that. Perhaps it had to be this way; perhaps his folk would fall into despair if they clung too much to beauty they could not conserve. 

Not that they had not tried, he thought and turned Vilya on his finger; the gold was cool under his touch. It had led them into a pact with evil. And even the magic that protected Imladris and Lothlórien had not been able to keep all sorrows away; with painful clarity he recalled the moonlight reflected in silver hair, a slender hand tickling his ear, playful laughter that sounded like music. She was not lost forever, but would she be the same, never-changing in centuries, and would she still understand him without words after all they had gone through? Other memories bubbled to the surface: Elros climbing down a long-forgotten coast path, laughing, full of excitement, knees dirty and long hair tangled with weeds. _Look, brother, look at the sea. Isn't it beautiful?_ There was Arwen as she rode with him for the first time, shouting with joy as she urged her mare to outrun his own. Bilbo Baggins, as he had first come to his doorstep: young, bright, full of wonder. He closed his eyes and listened to the tune of the flute, and he thought he heard Maglor's voice sing a lullaby, like rich, soft waves that rocked him gently to sleep.

We receive, and we lose.

"She claims it is for love," he said eventually, and he began to understand. 

Dwalin pursed his lips and said nothing. Bilbo smiled and nodded at him. "Love is a good reason," he said. Knowing the hobbit, he did not only mean the love of a spouse.

Quietly Elrond got to his feet. "I apologize for interrupting," he said, and did not evade Bilbo’s eyes that were entirely too kind and understanding. Instead he left the two old friends to their privacy and continued his way to his favourite resting-place near the falls, while the evening breeze sent dancing leaves across his path.

There would be happiness in Valinor. It was where they belonged, where all their wounds would heal and Celebrían would be waiting for him. They would continue to live, decades, centuries, millennia, and the pain of Arwen's loss would fade over time as all the others had faded, because otherwise it would be impossible to endure.

But then Elrond sat on the rim of the ancient stone basin, and he looked upon his treasured home that would all too soon wither and fall to ruins. He thought of those he had lost forever, and what they meant to him; how their lives had become more precious to him, not less, the moment they had slipped beyond his reach. He thought of all the mortal lives in Arda, short and full of passion so that every moment was precious, and of his friends who welcomed their well-deserved rest, and he felt unspeakably weary.

It was no path for him, for he had made his choice many lifetimes ago; but he would tell his daughter that he understood and respected her decision. Maybe it was a wise one after all.


	15. Prompt: Despair - Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Dworin Week 2017! This little ficlet isn't really shippy, but only because the situations didn't allow for shippiness. (Or rather, this is what they do when I imagine them as partners, but they'd do exactly the same as friends.)

Thorin’s grandfather had never been so radiant as on the day before the battle.

Aye, Thorin had seen him on his marble throne, clad in robes of velvet and mithril jewelry, with diamond beads glittering in his beard. The king had walked the halls under the mountain in all his splendor, a true son of Durin for all to see, loved and revered by the people of his prospering realm. They still loved him as he stood before them near the gate of Khazad-Dûm, humble in his plain armor, and asked them to fight with him one last time. A battle of despair, with little hope of success, but they followed him readily; for his part, Thorin would have followed him anywhere. If there ever had been a dwarrow who could end the nightmare and lead their people to a new home, it had to be Thrór.

Now Thrór was dead.

Thorin had seen him fall, and thus had no trouble in finding the body. The head had been more difficult to locate among the slain, the mass of bodies and limbs and blood both red and black. Balin had eventually shooed him off to look for his father and brother, and Thorin had spend futile hours staggering across the battlefield while carrion crows screamed in his head and the stench almost made him retch. At nightfall Dwalin found him and dragged him back toward the camp, where Thór’s body had already been cleaned and arranged on a sheet. They had covered king‘s severed neck with cloth and concealed the mutilation of his face in bandages that served nothing but his honour. Beside him lay Frerin, his young face too pale and still to merely be asleep.

That had been on the previous evening.

Thorin was mildly surprised when light began to flood the world anew, and birdsong sounded brightly through the thickets around their camp. How could the sun rise again when all hope had fallen to ruin? It was one thing to rush to battle in the knowledge that the odds were slim, but quite another to be proven right.

The flap oft the tent rustled behind him. Heavy footsteps approached, but Thorin did not turn: he recognized those steps, heavier that they used to be, but still distinctive. Dwalin dropped beside him and placed an arm around his shoulder.

„Let them rest,“ he said.

Thorin had no words to return. For a long while they sat in silence, and Thorin found himself in desperate envy of the dead before him – oh, to lie down beside his brother and never rise again, here at the end of all hope! But Dwalin’s hand was heavy on his shoulder, warm, solid, _alive_. Finally, after his night-long vigil, Thorin‘s sight began to blur; finally he allowed himself to let his head sink against Dwalin’s chest, and he buried his face in his friend’s bloody tunic and wept.

********************************

Many years had passed since Dwalin had seen his king in velvet and gems. The shining armor of a murderous lunatic had done little to inspire his awe. Yet now, as they got ready to charge into the battle for Erebor, Thorin was clad in simple chainmail and the goldlust was gone from his eyes and Dwalin had never seen him so radiant.

One last time they would follow him, as he had asked. One more battle, and then their quest would come to an end: to what end, Dwalin could not tell, but he allowed himself to hope it would be a good one. Stories needed a good ending, their burglar used to say, even if that did not always mean a happy one.

They would know soon enough, for now Bombur sounded his horn, and the barriers in front oft the gates broke. Armor clattered and feet shuffled as the companions prepared to charge, and then Thorin turned, just for a moment, to catch Dwalin’s eye and smile. It was a smile Dwalin had seen too rarely in all their time together, usually reserved for the private moments when they had allowed themselves to dream: a smile of wild, boundless hope.

Perhaps, Dwalin thought grimly, perhaps after all those years of hardship and suffering they had finally earned their happy ending. Surely they deserved it.


	16. Chapter 16

„I don‘t like this place,“ Dwalin grouses as Thorin halts beside him, squinting against the setting sun while he observes the company building their camp.

„The wizard seems to think it’s safe.“ Thorin crosses his arms and frowns. „We’re not riding on. The burglar is nearly falling off his pony as it is.“

Dwalin could not care less, but the point in Thorin’s favour is that night will undoubtedly fall soon, and they cannot press on in the dark. It is not worth it, either. They are in no hurry. The site they found is perfect for a camp, huddled in the shade of large rocks and a few scattered bushes. Evening light tints the rolling hills with appealing shades of orange and pink. The sun is like a glowing ember on the horizon.

And yet…

„Call me a fool, Thorin.“ Dwalin pulls a loose thread from his coat and wraps it tightly around his fingers. „Something’s not right here.“

Thorin watches him for a moment, considering.

„Be more precise?“

Dwalin shakes his head. He cannot put it into words, the dreadful feeling that tingles at the back of his neck and makes his skin crawl. He feels like he is being watched.

Thorin places a hand on his shoulder and musters the boulders of rocks beside them.

„These were made by ancient Men,“ he says. „Graves, I believe. They call this land the Barrow Downs. Whatever’s lying here has been dead for thousands of years.“

This does not exactly ease Dwalin’s spirits, but he would rather bite off his tongue than admit as much. He shrugs and turns towards their companions. 

„I’ll help Nori with the ponies,“ he says. „But I think we should double the guards. Just in case.“

 

Dawn falls quickly across the downs. Soon there is only a low rumble of voices as the dwarves gather around the firesite, the soft snorting of ponies, occasionally the shrill cry of a bird Dwalin has never heard before. It is a quiet evening, almost peaceful, as far as a night over ground can ever be called thus. 

Before long most of the companions are settled down. Dwalin, being unable to rest, volunteers to take the first watch, and Thorin had decides to accompany him. Rarely do they find a moment to themselves, save while their friends are asleep. Now they are huddled against each other in the shade of a large boulder, silent for the most part, only occasionally exchanging a word or two. The rock behind them is still warmed by the spring sun, and Dwalin‘s stone sense detects a deep, ageless humming from the depths oft he earth.

He has definitely not drifted away for a moment.

He is a trained guardsman. At any time he will be prepared to swear that sleep never claims him while he is on duty. Yet from one second to the other, something shifts in his surroundings – a subtle shift, for there appears to be no outward difference, except that the air is fresher than before.

There are voices down in the valley.

Dwalin sits bolt upright. He turns to look at Thorin, but his friend returns his gaze with a frown. 

„What?“

„Do you not hear it?“

A low, solemn chanting in the distance. The stomping of horses, the clattering of gear, a light behind the crest of the hill.

„Dwalin?“

Thorin looks seriously worried now. Dwalin puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes himself up. „Let me take a look.“

„Wait!“ Thorin scrambles to his feet behind him. „Where do you think you’re going?“

But Dwalin has already passed the boulders that hide their camp from view. They are on double watch, so it is only reasonable that one should go to investigate – and also, as is his way when things get potentially dangerous, that it should be him rather than Thorin.

He is not prepared for the sight that greets him as he strides further down the hill and around it to the other side.

It is no small group of people who walk the path of stones leading further towards the North. Maybe forty or fifty of them are gathered in a solemn procession, some of them mounted on sturdy horses. They must be Men from their size and build, both male and female, and they are clad in rough clothing Dwalin has never seen before. Torches cast a flickering light on sorrowful faces, on spearheads shaped by unskilled hands, copper ornaments of strange simplicity. Some of them are singing the slow, mourning tune he heard before, others are weeping quietly. They pass him by in only a few feet’s distance, but take no notice of him.

Mesmerized, Dwalin steps closer. His professional reason tells him to hide and let these strange people go their way, as they appear to be no threat to his friends. But some deep, ancient instinct urges him on.

It is only when he walks up beside them that one of the women raises her head and meets his eye. She has a dark, narrow face, and her black hair is braided and decorated with glass beads. „Have you come to mourn the king?“ she asks, apparently undisturbed by the fact that he is not of her race.

Dwalin frowns. „I am not from this land,“ he clarifies. „We are only passing through.“

„Then may the gods protect you better than us,“ she says. „The king is dead, and both his princes.“

She points ahead. Dwalin can vaguely discern the shapes at the head of the procession: several horses are led in pairs, apparently carrying something between them. It may well be stretchers.

„My condolences,“ he says gruffly. „What happened?“

„They were slain in battle.“ Her hand touches briefly the sword by her side. „Such was the price of our home when the dark ones came.“

Dwalin knows not why these words make his stomach turn. He watches for a while, walking quietly beside her. „Do you mean orcs?“ he inquires then. She gives him a strange look. „The dark ones,“ she repeats, and then she reaches out and grasps his wrist. He does not draw away. Her touch feels slippery, as though her fingers were made of water.

„The king is dead,“ she says again. „His loved ones mourn him. If only they had not let him out of their sight! Remember that, child of the mountains. You must not be parted from him.“

With a sad smile she lets go of him and walks away. Too late he realizes that his feet stopped on their own accord, and he stands, transfixed, while the procession passes around the foot of the hill and vanishes from sight. Darkness and silence are left in its wake.

 

On his way back to the camp Dwalin walks straight into Thorin’s arms.

„What do you think you’re doing?“ his friend hisses angrily. „You’re a guardsman, Dwalin Fundinul, since when do you leave your position? I had to wake Dori so I could come after you, no doubt he’ll give you a piece of his own mind…“

Dwalin catches Thorin’s face in both hands and kisses him on the mouth. It effectively shuts the king up, and Dwalin takes advantage of his stunned silence to lean their foreheads together and run a hand through the thick black hair.

„I worried,“ he says. „Forgive me. It was nothing.“

Thorin growls something indistinguishable, but he does not pull away.

„I will not leave your side again,“ Dwalin continues, and the words come low, urgent, as much a promise to himself as to his friend. „It was foolish and dangerous. I am sorry.“

„You could get hurt,“ Thorin mutters and tightens his arms around Dwalin’s waist. Dwalin nods and says nothing, because he will not tell Thorin of his fears.

 

When they set out the next morning, there is no path on the other side of the hill. But when Dwalin looks very closely, he detects a few ancient cobblestones along the way: they are all that is left of the road that must once have crossed this land, thousands of years ago.


End file.
